


rust.

by m_rosenkov



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon Universe, Character Study, Complete, Developing Relationship, Drama, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Novella, Swearing, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-11 20:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13532178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_rosenkov/pseuds/m_rosenkov
Summary: Desperation claws his throat dry, and he knows there are words to be said, but Kid does not know what they are or who they’re for, and again and again there is just the cold, bottomless ocean—arm torn for the two-hundredth time—stomach tearing itself apart from the inside—Trafalgar Law is there.{slight canon divergence; set from the two-year timeskip and onwards}.





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> My first contribution to the OP fandom. Non-canonical in that Kid doesn’t leave for the New World immediately, and creative licensing in regards to fight scenes, devil fruits and future plots. Also, general disclaimer that I don’t own.

**it begins here.**

 

**i.**

It’s like the old adage goes: ‘Curiosity killed the cat’.

Such a waste, he thinks, backed up against the wall of an abandoned tea export company, blood trickling down his jawline. Humans are naturally curious creatures, and life is anything but simple. After all, curiosity is the drive that keeps Eustass Kid going.

Late afternoon casts fire across the mossy ground, and Kid drinks the scene before him in, watching, waiting, calculating. He can’t stop staring. His heart thuds loudly against his ribcage, muscles itching to fight, and he sees the man miss a step, sword arching too far right, feet too close together.

He knows now that the blue light will expand. He knows that he will teleport himself away. He knows the Warlord will expect it, and turn, beam searing the ground as he moves.

Kid _also_ knows that deep inside that Warlord, there is a bolt, and though a small part of him wonders why, the larger part of him thrums excitedly, peeling off the wall and holding his hand out before him. There is a pull, a solid grounding, and the Warlord materialises in his mind as a collection of beams and welds and wires, accompanied with a soft _tick tick-_ ing and resonate hum.

Kid holds there for a second, absently aware of the presence that appears in his periphery, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Eustass- _ya_ —”

He drowns out the voice, mapping Kuma, pouring through the data before him. The motherboard hums beneath the control point of his chest, and Kid tracks across and up. There’s the camera, then the speech module. A part of him begrudgingly admires the robot—ingenious, really, how _alive_ it seems—but it doesn’t last long as Kuma turns to them without any hesitation, opening his mouth to ready the beam once more.

Beside him, Trafalgar bristles, his Room expanding with a flicker. “Fuck—”

“Don’t,” Kid orders.

“You’re too slow, Eustass- _ya._ ”

Trafalgar disappears with a blink, sword slicing through the ground and unbalancing him temporarily. Kid curses. The beam is blinding, but he gathers his balance, holds his focus, tries to ignore the idiot doctor as he hurls barrels and plants and people at the Warlord.

Battery, heat exchange, engine, polymer—

No, must be down—gyro, sensors—

_Ah_.

He finds it, wedged between a yellow wire and a copper beam.

“Eustass- _ya_ , hurry _up_!”

Law has this dangerous edge to his voice, tinged with panic and annoyance, and Kid can’t hold back his smirk. With the crook of one finger he focuses his power, locking onto that point inside Kuma and twisting the bolt left. It eases out smoother than he hoped, and he lets out a satisfied huff, grin spreading across his features.

“Oi, Trafalgar, you can—”

And then his world explodes.

It is, at this point, that Kid indulges in his curiosity. He had been that one milli-second too slow, which is ironic, really, when he thinks on it. Because if he’d been any earlier, then he wouldn’t have been saved by Trafalgar Law, and if he hadn’t been saved by Trafalgar Law, then…

Well.

He lands with a heavy thud in the grass, teleported some metres away, sprawled out on his back. In the distance there’s an excited ‘Woop!’ from his first mate, and the unmistakeable sound of a machine dismantling and exploding. More cheers fill the air, and it takes Kid a moment, maybe two, of blinking before his blurring vision starts to resemble something other than stars.

Law’s smirking, smug face swims into view. He hovers over him, leaning heavily on his nodachi, which is buried threateningly in the grass next to Kid’s face. Kid’s eyes flick to the side, tracking the temper of the severe sword with mild caution.

“Well done, Eustass- _ya_ ,” Law drawls. Then, “You almost killed us all.”

Kid hitches himself up on his elbows, closing the tense gap between them. He scowls. “What, couldn’t do it yourself, Trafalgar? Had to wait for me to save your pretty ass?”

Law’s golden eyes dance underneath his hat, full of mirth, and he simply grins.

It’s creepy.

“Fuck off,” Kid mutters after a beat, reaching up and shoving the doctor aside.

His hands find the ground and he shakily pulls up to a stand, slowly activating every muscle to make sure nothing is broken or pulled. Law watches him calmly, his two crewmates and the bear running up to stand diligently behind him. Kid holds his gaze as he stretches his arm across his chest, momentarily distracted by the trail of blood that drips from Law’s painted fingers, staining the grass.

The Archipelago is unnaturally quiet.

The aftermath of battle is not something Kid isn’t used too, but this one is different somehow, pregnant with waiting. For what, he doesn’t know, but it makes him cautious nonetheless.

Law’s eyes hold him still, and Kid is sure he has forgotten to breathe.

“I heard that there’s an Admiral lurking around.” Killer steps up beside him, breaking his thoughts, and Kid can practically _feel_ the tension leaking out of him. He looks from him to Law, then back again. “We shouldn’t stick around.”

“Agreed.” Law sheathes his weapon and shoulders it. He turns, casting a private glance back towards Kid, smirk gracing the corners of his lips. “I heard that there’s a bar not far from here. Once the Navy disappear, it will be interesting to see who remains.”

And with that, he is gone, leading his crew down and away through the bubbles of the island. Killer says something mocking, but Kid barely hears it, watching as Law fades from view, the pooling blood on the grass darkening with the sun.

**ii.**

What is most curious, is that Trafalgar Law is still there the next day by the time Kid wakes.

It is mid-morning, sunlight streaming through the dirty window of their room. The rival captain stands just off to the side near a rickety bookcase, in all his stoic grace, slightly hunched with his hand splayed open in the air before him.

He crooks one finger, then two: now three.

Kid stares at the even rise and fall of Law’s bare chest, tattoos rippling in the sunlight. The morning haze leaves his mind blissfully empty. Sounds of the bar below wash over him, all laughter and jeers, and he starts to lose himself in the smells of the street that drift through the open window. Coffee, bacon, fresh bread… and something else. A deeper smell. Spearmint and spice.

Law jerks suddenly, golden eyes snapping towards him. “What.”

Kid blinks. This is a wholly new experience to him unto itself. Most of the casual lays Kid has sought in the past are well on their way by the time he wakes. Whether it is out of regret, or they simply have somewhere better to be, he never cared to discover.

One-night stands are fun.

Simple.

Kid likes simple.

“What do you mean ‘what’?”

Law cocks his head curiously to the side. “You’re staring, Eustass- _ya_.”

Kid instinctively looks away, but unsurprisingly there are little distractions to find in 100 beli room, and he is back to staring after a beat. He watches, transfixed, as each finger slowly bends with purpose. The blue Room expands and contracts, centring around the surgeon like a laser. Kid feels it hum in the air, sending a cool temor up his spine—not quite uncomfortable, but not pleasant.

“One might think,” Law drawls lazily, smirk touching his lips, “that you’re looking for a weakness.”

Kid snorts. “Like I need a weakness to kick your ass.”

No reply. Just a slightly unnerving glare that fades into a smile.

“What are you doing anyway?”

His question thankfully turns the surgeon’s eyes away and back to his own outstretched hand. For as much as Kid liked last night and the prospect of more, Law has a look about him that is just a little too intense and a little too… _insane_ for him to be wholly comfortable with yet.

Which is rich, coming from someone like Eustass Kid.

“Exercises,” Law replies simply, continuing his methodical movements.

“Right.”

Maybe it’s just Kid, but his exercising tends to be a lot more vigorous.

As if reading his mind, Law explains, “My devil fruit drains much of my stamina and reflexes. I hope that by forcing it, it will adapt my body to prolonged use of Room, like an athlete training or a boxer sparring.”

“Huh.”

“You sound sceptical, Eustass- _ya_.”

Law’s tone is goading, as if encouraging Kid to challenge him. He ignores the bait, though. Mainly because Kid doesn’t exactly feel like explaining to a doctor, rival captain, and potential… _something_ , that his ‘complex’ devil fruit makes metal come to him, and makes it fly away, and that’s about it.

So, Kid just shrugs. Law shoots him a coy smile in response, eyes dancing in the morning light.

Kid doesn’t like the way his stomach lurches at that, heart pausing mid-beat.

“I was thinking we could grab some breakfast and coffee,” Law says casually, returning to his exercising. “Unless you have somewhere to be?”

“Nup.”

Kid knows he sounds like a dickhead and an idiot, but that’s really all he can muster now, tongue all tied and twisted and stomach summersaulting like a circus act. He stumbles out of bed, body moving in well-rehearsed actions, as he grabs his clothes and dresses deliberately.

He tries to ignore the way Law’s eyes track his every move, that blue dome still pulsing; and he tries to ignore how much he likes it, the Surgeon of Death, wholly focused on him alone.

He really does try.

**iii.**

A breakthrough. Finally.

Kid presses his palms into his eyes, rubbing them gingerly in the hopes they’ll refocus, throwing absent ‘yeah’s and ‘nah’s where appropriate at the transponder snail to his side. His workbench is a mess of shattered log pose’s, overfilled notepads, coffee-stained mugs, beer bottles and tools—the guilty remains of his past week with little-to-no sleep. He’s sure at this point he could rival Law with his brooding, insomniac vibe.

He stifles a yawn, smiling vaguely at the one intact log pose before him, two needles pointing steadily, and the last, whirling like a spinning top. It had been quite some work, ruining the pose like this. Requiring a steady control of his power, Kid pooled his energy into the environment around him, twisting the magnetic field. There was much hypothesising, and back-tracking, double processing and cursing. What he had, arrogantly, assumed would be easy, had turned into a laborious week-long task, holed up on an abandoned island with an incredibly agitated, ready-to-fight-literally-anything, first mate.

He envied his crew, partying still on Sabaody, without Killer to hover over them like an overprotective mother panther.

“Eustass-ya.” Law jolts Kid out of his thoughts, the den-den mirroring his frown. “Are you listening?”

_No._ “Yes.”

Of course, he doesn’t buy it, and Kid can hear the faintest smirk in his voice when he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

What an odd question. What an oddly _personal_ question. This isn’t like them. Their relationship is in and out, hot and cold—there is never any warmth, never any comfort. Law has not, and Kid thought he never would, _care_ about what he was thinking. In fact, more than once, the Surgeon has commented that he was certain Kid thinks nothing at all.

This is weird.

Kid is sure this is where he should reply with something romantic, or witty, or intelligent. Maybe Law will even laugh, and they’ll continue talking until midnight, seas apart but as close as the lovers can be. That’s what they do in those shitty romance books that Heat reads, right? A little bit of flirting with banter, and then next minute, they’re making love or some shit in the mountains.

“Eustass-ya,” comes the Northern drawl. “You seem occupied.”

The image of him leaning over Law and ploughing into pristine white snow, his skin searing hot in the cold of a winter mountain, burns into Kid’s mind, and he speaks without realising he’s doing it:

“I’m thinking about fucking you.”

The moment shatters.

There is a long, agonising silence on the other end of the line, the snail’s face as blank as ever.

Words. Words have never been Eustass Kid’s forte. And as he slams his forehead on the table, hoping to beat his own idiocy out of him, beer bottles clinking together loudly, he can hear Law finally break the silence with a sigh.

“I’ll be at Captain’s Flat by Saturday.”

There is the distinct clank of the phone call ending, his cabin filled with nothing but lonely silence, and Kid wonders just how many times he can bash his head on his workbench before he suffers from something much worse than his own idiocy.

**iv.**

Law is lazily flicking through the day’s newspaper, a month later, when Kid comes bounding into his cabin on the sub.

He’s feeling tense today—dangerously so. Him and Killer had collided this morning in a big way, something that they haven’t done since—shit—since they left the South Blue. Definitely overdue, the two had resorted from petty bickering to a full-on brawl that was cut-off by some local marines snooping around. Killer had fucked off promptly, and Kid was left with nothing but an intense burning rage and the need to fight—or fuck—or both.

“Oi, Trafalgar.”

Law sighs. “Hello, Eustass- _ya_.”

“Let’s do something.”

He’s pacing, tearing off his heavy coat and hurling it at the bed, cracking his knuckles, scratching at his chin. The humidity of the submarine is doing nothing to better his mood, sweat already beading on his shoulders and trailing down his back. Kid flicks his hand, attracting a set of old, gold coins into his open palm, before launching them back to the chest by Law’s desk.

“Fuck, it’s fucking hot in here.”

“I don’t want to do anything in this weather,” Law drawls as an answer, barely glancing up from the paper. Kid sees the familiar face of one of the Warlords on the front page, smirking beneath Law’s tattooed fingers—doesn’t miss the neat, purposeful tear that disjoints the photo. “And stop touching my things.”

“C’mon.”

A wary sigh is his only answer.

Kid runs a hand through his dirty hair, turning to the small circular window. Rain mars the world outside, but he can still see the streets of the city are alive, bright red umbrellas filling the crowded alleyways. He mutters, “I need to punch something.”

Law turns a page. “Of course. Violence is often your first and only answer to frustration.”

“We can fuck instead?”

Kid can’t hide the hopeful lilt to his tone, and Law’s eyes find him then, a small scowl gracing his features.

“You really are nothing but a brute.”

Usually, Kid playfully retorts any insult thrown his way, but this time, Law’s bitter words drag across his skin, rage returning with sudden intensity. It boils within, and his hands curl to a fist, ready to lash out and destroy. He wants to feel the world around him _shatter._ Needs it to.

He grinds out, “And you’re a real fucking cold-hearted fuck.”

“Perhaps,” comes the infuriatingly vague reply, Law’s eyes returning the page before him. Like this conversation is beneath him. Like Kid is beneath him. “Or perhaps I just do not wish to engage in your childish behaviour.”

Ah. Kid let’s out a shaky breath. His jaw aches from clenching to hard, and he can feel the dull throbbing pain in his palms from his nails digging their way in. And _shit_ , why is this fucking ship so _hot_.

He tries to reason, “I’m on the fucking edge so back the fuck—”, but Law cuts him off, tone frosty, with a sharp “Of course.”

Amazing, really. It’s like the surgeon is programmed specifically to say the exact wrong thing at the exact right time to just make him _explode_. To the point that Kid thinks that maybe he does explode, vision whiting out for the briefest moment, his hearing reduced to nothing but a low whine.

When he comes back to, he hears himself say, voice strangely distant, “I’m going.” He wobbles over to the bed, snatching up his coat and shrugging it on. The weight grounds him somewhat, and he takes a deep breath of the stuffy air, head a foggy mess. “Need a good fuck and a drink.”

“Oh?” There’s the familiar rustling of a page being turned, and it takes all of Kid’s self-control to not rip that paper from Law’s hands and hurl it out of the window. “And who would be so lucky to be graced by your company this afternoon?”

“Anyone but you.”

Kid’s at the door, wrenching it open, desperate for air.

And then Law says:

“Goodbye, Eustass- _ya_.”

There is something so final, so dramatic about his tone, that it has Kid pausing in the empty hall, still gripping the door handle. An unfamiliar, almost nauseating feeling stirs deep within his stomach.

“You don’t own me, Trafalgar,” he breathes to the wall, shattering the silence.

“No,” Law admits, “but I own a part of what we have.”

Kid wants to ask what it actually _is_ Law thinks they have, but he finds words are beyond him at the moment, and Law continues with utter sincerity, “You either want me and no one else, Eustass- _ya_ , or you can leave.”

He wants to leave. He really does. He’s sure in that moment that he has found the most temperamental, psychopathic man on the Grand Line to sleep with.

And yet… it is this that keeps Kid’s feet firmly rooted in place.

A temperamental, psychopathic surgeon is exactly his type.

After a minute of silence, Kid turns, grins. “If I stay, will you fuck me?”

Law’s eyes flash dangerously, his mouth forming a snarl, and before Kid can react, he’s standing out in the pouring rain, the Polar Tang innocently bobbing in the tumultuous waves before him. The docks smell like piss and shit and vomit, and he is drenched within seconds.

The door to the deck of the sub creaks open, and Law pokes his head out, finding him through the grey with a sharp glare. There is a small moment where they both just stare, before Law sticks up his middle finger and withdraws, slamming the door shut so hard Kid is sure the whole sub rattles on its bolts.

He smiles, takes to the street, rolling his shoulders. Kid is unable to help the laugh that rises from inside, the air and rain cooling his burning cheeks.

Maybe he’ll just stick with a drink for the night.

**v.**

They don’t fall in love. Not really.

What they share is a kind of toxic infatuation, dancing around the edges of their souls, touching, retreating, and taking and taking and taking. Kid loves the way Law unravels for him, completely and utterly vulnerable, and he will steal this in any way he can. After all, the sex is amazing, but making Trafalgar Law completely lose his cool—to watch him nearly destroy a whole marine base because Kid had insinuated something about something that had just tipped him too far over the line—

_That_ is much more enjoyable.

Which is why, three months later, Kid is unsurprised to find himself once again sprawled on his back in the sand with Law looming over him. This time, however, the nodachi— _Kikoku_ , Kid had discovered on one of their calmer nights—presses dangerously against his chest, just above his beating heart.

He gurgles out a laugh, blood pooling in his mouth, and he turns to the side to spit. The colour is too black, and his vision swims.

Law’s eyes darken. “I don’t want your pity.”

Ah. Kid blinks, slowly. Darkness is creeping in, and idly, as he starts to drift in and out of consciousness, he wonders if he did really take it too far this time. But then a cool hand ghosts his face, pressure releasing off his chest, and he scrambles up the hill in his mind, desperate to open his eyes.

Law is there. He smiles, and says, “Fight me.”

Kid wants to say something witty and funny, like _fuck you_ , but his brain refuses to move his mouth. Instead he stares, mapping the tired lines of his lover’s face, a black cloud of pain and secrets. He finds the energy to lift one arm, hand grabbing Law’s shoulder, and with all the effort Kid can muster, he pushes him away.

Law stumbles to the side, all grace gone, and Kid takes the second to breathe, watching the clouds drift across the midday sky. He hears the Alabasta steel blade sing as Law twists the hilt with his wrist, and he is bathed in a Room.

Then,

“I’m sorry.”

Really, honestly, he truly is this time. And not because he can see that his heart is about to be pushed out of his body, and possibly hurled into the ocean behind them, but because—

Well, shit, he fucked up, okay? Kid knows he’s an arrogant asshole, but he still has some semblance of humility.

Law hesitates, the tip of the blade once more at his chest, and hisses, “What?”

Kid catches his gaze, wild-eyed like a caged animal, and says again, “I’m sorry.” Then, “And I’m not gonna fight you.”

“Why?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Trafalgar.”

The tension seems to melt away from his body, the Room disbanding, and he weakens the grip on the sword with a sigh. “You are—”

“I _know_ ,” Kid agrees, pushing the blade to the side and sitting up. His world spins, and he puts a hand to his head, hoping to steady his vision. “Fuck me, I didn’t know it was like that, okay? I just thought you were a fucking brat.”

He hears the sword slide back into its sheath and looks up to see Law smirking at him from beneath his hat.

“Well,” Kid elaborates, “more of a brat than usual.”

Law laughs at that. The tension fizzles out of the air as quick as it appeared, and he sinks down next to Kid, laying back in the sun. A gull lazily lifts off the gentle waves, taking to the sky, and filling the island with its lonely caw.

A minute passes.

Then two.

Kid lays down by his side, centimetres away, fingers almost brushing. He does not move to close the gap.

“I mean it when I say don’t touch me,” Law breathes into the silence.

Kid says, “Yeah, I got that.”

More silence. Then:

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Law pauses. “But I will tell you one day.”

There is a movement to his side, a sigh, and then Law is above him once more, lips brushing against his own. His breath is warm and sweet, and he hovers for a beat, staring down into Kid’s face, eyes roaming greedily as if he cannot take enough in.

“Can I kiss you?” Kid asks, voice much too quiet for his liking.

“No.”

Law adjusts himself, palm lying flat against his jaw, thumb rubbing across his cheek. Like an enjoyable book, he takes his time, fingers dancing lightly over Kid’s face, ghosting his eyelids, brushing across his mouth. He smiles, then, tongue lazily licking his lips, eyes full of mirth, before it flickers to something more melancholic, almost sad.

“I love how such a dangerous man is so vulnerable here,” he whispers.

Something coils in Kid’s chest at his words. He says, mouth arid, “Only with you.”

Again, a sad smile graces his features, and he breathes against Kid’s lips, “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Kid replies, blood still resting on his tongue.

Law moves down then, leaving him cold and empty. His mouth finds Kid’s neck, tongue flicking out and licking slowly from collarbone to earlobe, where he pauses, breaths hot and shaky in Kid’s ear. He murmurs, “Do you want me to?”

Kid sighs. His hands move of their own accord, gripping at Law’s waist, offering him enough leverage to buck his hips, desperate for friction, for any contact at all. He feels the smile against his jaw, the small laugh that escapes from Law, and Kid thinks that he has almost died there, then, on that shitty little island in the middle of nowhere.

“I’m sor—”

Law’s mouth clamps down over Kid’s, and in one fluid movement, he slides, pressing his whole body against Kid and straddling his waist. The contact is a release, and Kid groans into him, pushing his upper body up, tongue diving into Law’s mouth. He tastes of peppermint and spice, and Kid can’t—won’t ever—get enough.

When Law pulls away, breathing heavily, he says, voice barely audible, “I know, Eustass- _ya_. I know.”

 

They’re not in love. Not really. But as they slowly unravel, the midday sun making their movements lethargic and languid, lips messily brushing any place they can find, hands desperately roaming—

Kid wonders.

**vi.**

Friday rolls around a couple of weeks later, and the two rival captains find themselves, surprisingly, in that 100 beli room on Sabaody once more.

Well, ‘surprisingly’ is a stretch, considering Kid had requested specifically “That shit-ass room with the pink toilet”, because, though ready to murder literally anyone in the pub that looked at him sideways, he is a sentimental bastard, and it was totally worth it to see Law’s calm façade crack for that 1.2 seconds he said “Huh, cool” upon walking into the room.

Kid stretches out across the uncomfortable, lumpy bed, muscles all loose and relaxed after their steamy catch-up, and watches as Law takes to a chair in the corner, carefully sliding his sword out of her sheath. He has this feral expression about him that Kid can’t quite look away from, and as if sensing his concern, Law’s eyes snap to him and positively _shine_.

Kid’s stomach drops with dread. “What?”

“Can I ask a favour of you, Eustass- _ya_?” Law asks without hesitation.

A million red flags appear. “Ah—”

“I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”

Kid’s first, and most logical answer, is no. The second is a series of extremely panicked questions that are only heightened by the palpable excitement Law is clearly struggling to contain.

However, what leaves Kid’s mouth is a very keen and greedy, “Fuck yeah”, accompanied by a considerable number of images so explicit, that it even leaves him a little stunned at his own mind.

Law’s smile explodes. With the sunlight drowning the room in its warm orange glow, and Kid realising that he is an _idiot_ and _why the fuck did he say that_ , Law looks every part the insane Surgeon of Death that haunts children’s nightmares.

“Wait—” Kid starts.

But Law has already jumped up, and paces the room with long, careful strides, sword in hand, as he says, “This will probably hurt less if you give me your heart.”

“Probably?”

“I can only guess at the effects, but yes, probably. I would have used it in battle—I don’t particularly want to cause you harm, even though you can be an insufferable asshole—”

“Oi—”

“—but,” he continues, pausing and running his palm along his blade in the creepiest way possible, “it drains too much of my energy and leaves myself, and consequently my nakama, vulnerable. So—”

He is babbling. He is _brimming_ with excitement. And Kid is starting to feel extremely, exceptionally, panicked.

There have only been two times Kid has seen Law excited. The first was after his return from the Paramount War. Kid hadn’t weaselled out of him exactly what he saw or what happened, but Law had returned to Sabaody at some time between 1am and 3am a week after disappearing, _bursting_ into his captain’s cabin on his ship and throwing himself on top of Kid, who had barely anytime to wake let alone register what was happening. Law was never particularly eager for sex, before, after, or even during, and Kid remembered being worried for a moment that maybe he was actually dreaming the feverish pirate captain moaning on top of him that night.

The second and most recent time Law had let loose, had been an accidental slip on Kid’s behalf, alerting three Navy warships of their location. Which, of course, wouldn’t have been a big deal—himself and Killer had worked through more than that, just the two of them alone—until Law had decided that it _was_ a big deal, and adopted this manic persona that had even Killer backing up against the wall in fear. Kid remembers Law saying something like, “Excellent, I want to try something,” and had then, in one clean sweep, _pulled out over a hundred marine hearts at once_.

So, yes, Kid is not feeling particularly calm as Law turns to him with a grin.

“May I have your heart?” he asks.

Kid wants to say, “You already have it”, or something equally as lame, but instead he just resigns, standing cautiously as Law directs him to a certain spot in the middle of the room, measuring the space with cool, golden eyes. He raises his right hand, fingers splayed towards the floor, and mutters under his breath. Room bathes them, Kid’s skin crawling in response.

He stands still, hands limp by his side, awkward and unsure of what to do. Law reaches out with his free hand, pressing it into Kid’s chest, and holding it there for a moment. It is beating a little too fast, a little too out of focus, and Law must feel it, his shoulders falling in response.

“You okay?” Law breathes.

It is weird, Kid feels, being like this. Vulnerable, open. Uncertain. Waiting for something to happen, your life completely in someone else’s hands, voluntarily.

But—

There is a wonderful emptiness and lightless in his bones, and Kid loses himself in the feeling of Law’s hand on his chest, the man so close he can count each excited breath that kisses his collarbone.

Kid leans down, brushing his lips against Law’s, savouring the smile that dances beneath. “Just hurry up, Trafalgar.”

“ _Mes_.”

There is cold.

Emptiness.

Then Law takes a step backwards, boot heel clicking against the floorboards. In his open palm, there rests Kid’s heart, still beating quickly, but still _beating_. It’s so strange to see that Kid can’t help the laugh that bubbles free from his belly, and even Law smiles, eyes sparkling in the low light as he stares at his newly acquired prize.

“Cool.” Kid admires the organ, marvelling at the calm _thud thud thud_ that has settled over him. “How will you know it’s mine?”

“I don’t usually carry multiples around with me. But yours...”

He fades, and Kid presses. “What? Is it fucked?”

“No,” Law laughs. “I don’t know.” He brings it close to his chest, holding it carefully, then pockets it in his coat with a mysterious smile. “I just like it.”

Kid is glad Law no longer holds the heart, certain that it stopped for a full second there.

“Ready?” Law asks, flexing his left hand, the right effortlessly expanding and contracting Room.

“I guess.”

Because, really, he has no idea what is going on, and, to be honest, could not have been prepared for it even if he did; one second he is staring into Law’s golden gaze, and the next—

Burning. Everywhere, everything—just _burning_.

There is a sharp, intense pain in his chest, and then it _sears_ , fire burning up and around. Someone is there, reaching inside, grabbing his lungs and wrenching them out. Kid wraps his arms around his middle, trying to hold it together—stumbles—coughs. His vision blurs and Law disappears, and then there is black, there are stars, there is the shimmering dance of light.

And just as quick as it happened, there is nothing.

It takes a moment for Kid to gather himself. He’s in the pink bathroom, curled up on the cold tiles. There is the steady stream of a shower running, humidity thick in the air from the heat of it, and Kid is alarmingly aware of how fine he feels, like nothing happened at all.

Something feathers up his side, and he turns, Law leaning over him, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. He smiles.

“You’re awake.”

“Uh.” Kid struggles to sit up, Law gripping his elbow to steady him. He’s not in pain any longer, but he feels shaky, almost uneasy, like a baby wobbling to stand. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Kid’s sharp glare has him elaborating, with a very dramatic eye-roll, “I haven’t _named_ it yet. I only used a tenth of its potential power, but, to put it in layman’s terms, I burnt your insides with an acute amount of radioactivity to destabilise and unbind the atoms of your being. Ultimately, I was able to reverse the effects, but, I imagine if I can centralise the energy of Room with more time, it will have a cascading effect, particularly if I can Shamble—”

Kid kisses him. Partly to shut him up—the last thing he wants to think about is _radioactivity_ and his _body_ —but mostly because when Law talks like that, unchecked, the rare release of his iron-clad grip on self-control, Kid just _loves_ it.

Law struggles, angry muffled protests filling Kid’s mouth, but Kid is firm, holding him still and silent; and then, Law relaxes. Leans forward and into him. One hand slides up, tangling in Kid’s messy hair and pushing further. He tastes like peppermint and spice.

Somehow, it feels different to their normal routine. Law is always languid, distant almost, but here he is, in Kid’s arms, no space between them, and no chance for space. He kisses once; twice.

Six times.

Warmth pools in Kid’s core, and he falls back onto the tiles, pulling Law down with him. Law is all over him, hands scrabbling at clothes and tugging roughly—and then he is kissing deeper, with an urgency Kid can’t keep up with, body full of tremors and shaking breaths. They roll on the cold tiles, tangled in each other, and Law groans, a gravelly sound deep within his chest, hand fisting Kid’s hair aggressively and pulling away.

He stares down through half-lidded eyes, smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Your heart is beating very fast, Eustass- _ya_.”

Kid blinks. He is about to say that he doesn’t think so when he remembers, hand touching his chest, ghosting over the empty hole he’d forgotten was there. “Oh.”

There is a long silence between them, broken only by the sound of the streaming shower, neither looking away. Law looks sheepish, almost hesitant, and Kid tries to think of something to fill the silence, drawing nothing but blanks and half-finished thoughts.

Eventually he finds himself, wrapping his hand around Law’s neck, and pulling him down again. He breathes into his mouth, “Keep it for tonight.”

Law laughs into him; says, “Okay.” Then, “Thank you for trusting me.”

And Kid has nothing interesting to say, so he says nothing at all, meeting Law for another kiss, savouring the taste of mint and spice that rests on his tongue.


	2. two.

**a sword to fall on.**

**(welcome to the new world, kid).**

**vii .i**

Three months later, Law says, “I’ll be in the New World in a week.” He says, “There’s something I have to do.” And then, he adds, an afterthought, the transponder snail eerily impassive, “I want to see you.”

So, they reunite at a bar just beyond the Red Line, on a little tropical island named Fisherman’s Point. The Sailor’s Flagon, it’s called, and it is a dingy looking place, all rotted wood and sandy floorboards with long tables that stretch down the middle, piled high with empty mugs. The beer tastes like bitter piss, and the place has a mouldy smell about it that almost makes it hard to breathe. Barman, Duke, an old man with long dreadlocks and yellow teeth, says with pride that they have never had the navy step foot in there, the island itself some kind of pirate’s paradise wedged just beyond the boarders of G5’s reach.

The night Pirates of Heart arrive, Duke pins their wanted posters up on a wall. He says it’s his way of remembering who comes and goes.

“Unprotected by any Yonko,” he explains, with the air of a man riddled by paranoia, “ya gotta have your own precautions.”

When he turns away to wipe down the grimy benches, Law rips his down, cramming it into his coat pocket with a scowl. Kid laughs, throwing himself onto a wooden stool at the bar. Duke is responsive, the perfect bartender, pouring him a drink immediately.

“Read in the newspapers the other month that a group of pirates got crucified on an island thirty clicks south,” he says as he slides the brew over. “Says it was the new super rookie. Know how to make an entrance, eh?”

Kid grins, but before he can comment, Law slips into the seat next to him, tapping his fingers on the benchtop as if demanding an audience. “The newspapers say a lot of things.” His tone is clipped, impatient.

“Aye.” To his credit, Duke holds the surgeon’s gaze, looking somewhat puzzled. “I suppose you two aren’t here for just a drink.”

“No,” Law snaps, Kid answering at the same time; “I am.”

Duke laughs then, a whole, infectious sound that Kid can’t help smile at.  “So, what brings ya?” he asks, addressing Law.

Law studies him; steeples his long fingers beneath his chin, look cheekily curious. It’s a dangerous one that Kid knows too well, and he spins around on his stool, resting his back against the bar and watching their partnering crews cause havoc.

He honestly has no idea what is going on, but Kid can’t shake the feeling that it’s nothing good.

“I’ve heard stories about an island north-west across Lipton’s Trench.” Law’s voice has taken on a silvery, manipulative quality. “What can you tell me about it?”

Kid watches as Heat accepts a shoe from one of the Heart Pirates, brown liquid sloshing out the side as he holds it above his head. Cheers rise to the rooftops, and then a countdown, Heat bringing the boot to his lips and drinking its contents, trying his best not to gag.

It’s almost enough to distract Kid.

“Eh? What, and you gonna pay me for spilling navy secrets, kid?”

_Ah._

Almost.

Kid stiffens, and Law shoots him a quick glare, one that says: _don’t_ and _shut up_. And that would be the smart thing to do, really—especially when dealing with the navy. But the thing is—

The thing _is_ , is that Kid is an idiot.

He reaches for his gun, mug clattering on the floor, drowned out by the happy yells of the bar. Law is quick though—always is—and Room engulfs him in seconds. All Kid’s trigger-happy fingers get is a bottle of water.

An infuriating smirk is thrown his way, leaving him grinding his teeth in anger.

“Wan’ another drink, lad?” Duke asks with a chuckle.

“Enough with the fucking secrets, Trafalgar,” Kid growls, turning to Law next to him, slamming the water down on the bench loudly. “I want to know what the _fuck_ is going on.”

“That’s fair,” Law drawls calmly, eyeing him like one would a wild animal. “My intentions inviting you here were not devious, however.”

“Bullshit. Do you ever stop playing these fucking mind games?”

His eyes sharpen. “Believe what you want, Eustass- _ya_ , but I did actually want to see you—”

“Just on this convenient little island, right, to ask convenient questions about the navy? The _navy,_ ” Kid sneers, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Fuck this, I have shit to do—”

“Yes, I imagine those crucified men are quite thirsty—”

“It’s called making a statement. We can’t all hide underwater like cowards—”

Law visibly bristles. “There is _nothing_ cowardly about being smart—”

“Oi.”

Law snaps his mouth shut, frown deepening annoyed lines on his angular face, and Kid whirls back around on his chair, a scathing “ _what_ ” hissed towards his first mate.

Killer regards him with mild amusement, before turning to Law. “So, are we here for a reason or not?”

Law smooths the lapels of his vampiric coat, throwing Kid a wry glare before manipulating his irritated expression to one more blank. “Yes, there is a reason I called you all here.”

“Tch.” Kid turns away.

“You the only sensible one here?” Duke asks, amused.

Killer nods his head in Law’s direction, replying with a shrug, “Nah, he goes alright.”

“Yes, please excuse Captain Kid,” Law says, voice as smooth as butter, like nothing happened. “From what I understand, you used to be Admiral Nevra, Aokiji’s predecessor. I thought you might have some information about the island.”

Kid turns back around, Killer slipping into the seat on his left side.

_Admiral?_

He’s not worried. Kid is many things, stupid and reckless among them, but he isn’t worried. Even though admitting it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, he knows that Law has a plan, carefully calculated, waiting for the right moment. They have been through enough together for Kid follow through with it, too, regardless of the who, what, why.

Even if it involves an ex-navy Admiral.

That doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it though.

Duke is silent, pouring three new mugs of beer and passing them over to the trio. Law is the only one who does not take his drink, regarding the bartender with a calculating stare.

The old man sighs. “Aye. Though I bet you already know, don’t ya, Surgeon of Death? That’s why you ask, eh? For confirmation?”

“I know some things,” Law admits reluctantly. His expression is guarded. “I can guess.”

A scoff. “Whole lotta good that’ll do ya. Yer smart, but it’ll bite ya in the ass.”

Law is silent. He props his elbow on the benchtop, scooting closer to the bar and resting his head in his palm. His pinky finger taps the bridge of his nose.

Kid takes a slow sip, watching both men out the corner of his eye, feeling Killer by his side doing the same. Law has a remarkable intensity to his gaze as he ponders what to say. Kid knows that his thoughts are way beyond his realm of understanding in this situation, and he wonders, not for the first time in his life, why the hell Law even wants him here.

Whenever Kid has an idea, Law imagines it better, executes it better. Kid is just the child left in his wake, still trying to piece the puzzle together long after the surgeon’s departure.

“Vegapunk lab?” Law asks eventually.

Hidden underneath the table, a hand finds Kid’s thigh—traces the lines of muscle, feathery touch dancing across the coloured cloth of his pants. Law throws him a quick, warm smile, so out-of-character that Kid just stares, blank, the sounds of the pub nothing but a dull buzz behind him.

It says everything and nothing all at once, their heated words forgotten just like all those times before.

“Abandoned. Got moved to Punk Hazard further south. Then _that_ was abandoned too. Nothin good happens on this side of the Grand Line.” Duke pauses; grabs his grimy cloth and resumes wiping down the bench. “Why do ya wanna go anyway? Been empty for decades. Probably full of pirates by now.”

Law lets go of his thigh, merely waving his hand and drawls, “Call me inquisitive.” He takes his drink then, downing it in one go, nose crinkling in disgust as he puts the empty mug back down. “That is truly vile.”

“Ya wanna go there, I ain’t gonna stop ya,” Duke says, taking Law’s mug and throwing it in the sink behind him. “Kid like you could probably do some good with whatever’s left over, if anything. I left the navy for a reason—sure you know already.”

“Rumours, mostly. I’d hardly call it knowing.”

“Maybe ya should stop overthinkin’ so much then, kid. Only the ones who listen to rumours survive these waters.”

Law’s face darkens.

Duke bends down briefly, still muttering, sounds of shuffling paper coming from behind the bar, before emerging with a map. He shoves Killer’s and Kid’s mugs to the side, smoothing out the parchment full on the bench, and tapping a small brown dot in the sea of blue with his index finger.

“This is Fisherman’s Point.” Duke’s gnarled finger tracks north-west, true to Law’s direction, pausing at an even smaller dot marked with an X. “The island. They call it Blue Hole.”

“And it’s a lab?” Killer asks.

“Aye. Just one of them though. They said each lab had its own purpose—never went to them myself. Even for an admiral like me, this shit was well beyond my paygrade.” Duke looks to Law then. “Ya know what it is?”

“Again,” Law says carefully, tone low, “rumours.”

“Well, warning ya isn’t gonna do anything, obviously.” Duke rolls the map back up, passing it to Law. “Keep this. You’ll need it.”

“Thank you. Killer, I trust you’ll look after this.” He hesitates, then says, “If you don’t mind, Eustass- _ya_.”

Kid doesn’t have to meet Law’s eyes to see the truth: they have enough shared history for him to hear the demand, clear as day, between each word— _Give me your help._

For as long as he needs, Kid will be there. Even if he still has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

“Got it?” he mutters to Killer, finishing his drink in one gulp.

Always loyal, his first mate nods, slides out of his chair to a stand, and takes the map. He claps Kid on the shoulder. “Got it.”

**vii .ii**

Kid stays up past midnight, drinking with the mingling crews, much too buzzed off the swill Duke continues to pour. The Heart Pirates are good quality. They take nothing seriously and have a sharp wit that keeps the night lively, even as the tiredness of their travel sets in.

It is on his eighth round of poker—and eighth loss to goddamn Shachi—that Kid takes it as his queue to leave, ready to head upstairs to bed. Law had retired some hours ago, and Kid wonders briefly if he should just find a comfortable place on the floor to crash so he doesn’t wake the man—but the allure of a bed with pillows is too great. Stepping over some of the passed out, he takes to the stairs when a hand grabs his wrist, yanking him back.

“Oi, watch it.”

“We need to talk.” He can see Killer’s face through the holes of his mask, blue eyes wide. Beside him stands Penguin, arms folded and look much too serious for Kid’s tipsy brain to handle. “Are you sure about all this? These guys have no idea what’s going on, you know.”

“We have some,” Penguin says slowly. “But the captain’s been distant for some time.”

It’s been two months since he’s been in the New World; two months since he’s seen Law. Kid thinks back to their conversation this afternoon, the argument, as familiar as a kiss for the couple; and then Law’s hand, creeping up his thigh, smile warm like afternoon sun.

He says, “Don’t seem distant to me.”

“Captain never seems anything.”

 _True_ , he thinks, not entirely sour.

Penguin continues, “Somethings got him worried. He’s freaking out. Can’t you—”

“Look, mate,” Kid starts, leaning against the wall for some support, “if you think your temperamental bitch of a captain talks to me about feelings, you’re very, very wrong.”

“He has to talk to someone, right?” Penguin presses, frowning. “You’ve been at this for nearly a year now—that’s longer than anyone else he’s seen.”

“Yeah, and he’s an unfriendly prick,” Kid snaps, suddenly irked. Like _he_ could ever make Law talk. The implication alone is laughable. “It’s like drawing water from a fucking stone.”

Penguin shrugs then, a defeated movement, mutters something like “I know,” and makes towards the bar with a slouch.

Something unpleasant knots Kid’s stomach as he watches him leave, and he feels Killer’s eyes boring into him, waiting for him to do something.

“Fuck off with your staring,” he growls, hauling himself of the wall with a grunt. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.” Killer looks away.

Then—

“Just.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s just fucking weird, alright?” Killer asks, voice abrupt, tight. Now that most of the two crews are too drunk or tired to notice, he takes off his mask, fixing Kid with a concerned glare. “Can you talk to him? Before we do something stupid? Before _he_ does something stupid?”

“You’re a fucking nervous mother, you know that, right?”

“ _Kid_.”

The captain rubs his hand down his face. This is a very dramatic end to what was, by all rights, a pretty relaxed evening. He can’t help but feel the roles should be reversed here, Law having this conversation with Penguin about _him_ instead. After all, he has made some outrageously dangerous and terrible decisions in the past, Law clearly the calmer of the two.

He’s starting to feel like he’s missing something here. Something big. Something important.

“Yeah,” Kid mutters, voice thick and weary. “I’ll try.”

**vii .iii**

Law is, of course, still awake. He’s propped against the headboard of the bed, a large textbook open in front of him, scribbling in a notepad. The only light is a single, squat candle, melting into a waxy mess on the bedside, casting unnerving shadows across the room. He doesn’t even glance Kid’s way upon entrance, obviously expecting his company, the soft _click_ of the door too loud in the stillness.

He feels it then, Kid does. Or, perhaps, it is that he does _not_ feel it—or feel anything at all. Kid knows he hasn’t changed, but Law is not the same, the space between them like a forest; Law on one side and he on the other, unable to see him through the tangling of trees.

He is far removed from him, and Kid does not know why, or when, this happened.

“Eustass- _ya_.”

Law is looking at him, regarding him calmly with a smile that does not sit right on his face, as if it is leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He pats the empty space by his side.

Kid doesn’t move. “You better explain to me what the hell is going on.”

Law blinks. “Yes, naturally. Now we’re in private.”

Kid does not miss how carefully worded his sentence is, how guarded Law holds himself. “If you were worried about Killer, he’s gonna know anyway.”

Law is still, expression completely undecipherable. Stands of black hair ruffle in the breeze from the open window, and he brushes them from his eyes, almost frustrated.

“The world is very black and white to you, isn’t it, Eustass- _ya_?” he asks, voice incredibly soft.

 _Of course,_ Kid thinks, _what else is there to work with?_

He stays silent.

Law sighs, closes the book, and moves further to the side, pressed against the ugly, rust coloured wall. There is a crooked painting of cat above his head, and the sheets tangled beneath him are a gaudy, electric blue. It’s a weird, domestic setting, the whole scene weighing uncomfortable on Kid’s shoulders.

Law pats by his side once more. “Please, just sit with me. I’ll tell you—” He presses his lips shut; frowns. Then, “About the island.”

Kid wants to say, “Fuck the island,” but he can’t find the words—not with Law looking so oddly fragile, nervous even, still patting by his side for Kid to sit.

So, Kid shakes himself, walks over, sinks into the shitty mattress with a grunt.

“I really did want to see you,” Law muses, voice barely audible. His eyes dance in the candlelight, staring straight through Kid. “I… apologise for before, at the bar. I can see how—how it must seem.”

Kid roughly wraps his arm around Law’s shoulders, pulls him into his chest and buries his face in his hair. It’s never soft, Law’s hair—not like his own—but course and shiny, thick and unruly. It holds the ocean, salty smells mixed with sandalwood.

Kid breathes deep, something in him unravelling, muscles relaxing as Law wraps his arms around his torso, holding him close. They bleed into each other for a beat, and for that blissful moment, it doesn’t feel so bad.

He missed him terribly.

“The island should have a lot of interesting things for you to play with,” Law mumbles into his chest, breaths hot on his bare skin. “Marines never clear those places out properly.”

“Sounds good.” Kid tracks a finger down Law’s spine absently, watching goosebumps rise on his tattooed arms. “Why do you wanna go?”

“Information.” His voice is thick with fatigue. “Leverage.”

“For what?”

Law doesn’t answer, the only sound the waving of palms just outside their window. One taps the glass, desperate to enter, and Kid thinks that maybe Law has fallen asleep there, breaths steady and even in the cooling night.

But then—

“I can’t tell you.”

Penguin’s words come back to haunt him, an annoying dripping tap in the back of Kid’s mind: _Something’s got him worried._

“Why?” Kid whispers. Like his voice doesn’t belong. Like if he speaks normally, he’ll lose this moment. “We can work together.” His finger traces back up Law’s spine, to his long neck, where he tangles his hand into his hair. “Allies.”

“No.” Law’s voice is extremely low, astonishingly delicate. “You can’t help—I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I _can_ help.” A colossal understatement. Kid would burn the world to the ground for him. “I want to.”

“I know, Eustass- _ya_. I know.”

There is nothing more to be said, and Kid feels like he has been here before, scratching at Law’s surface to try and glimpse the person he hides inside. An emotion he can’t quite name clenches his heart in a vice grip, and he struggles for a breath, paused, as if waiting for something.

In another world, Kid wonders, would Law be happy?

“Just—” Fuck. “ _Trafalgar_.”

Law looks up at him, eyes-heavy lidded and dark, the look of a man hunted. “I know, I know, I’m sor—”

Kid doesn’t want to hear what he has to say—doesn’t think he _can_.

Stupid really. To fall in love with someone so far away, so far removed.

Instead, he kisses Law, cutting him off, again and again, deeply and wholly, all the things Kid can’t say—won’t say—caught in his throat. Law’s hands slip underneath his open coat, tracing the dip of his back, featherlight, as always. They’re warm—his lips, too, heated as they slide across Kid’s jaw.

“Ahh, d-do you—”

“Yes.”

Law moves as he agrees, sliding into Kid’s lap languorously, fingers interlacing behind his back as he leans into another kiss. It’s slow at first, careful, drawing a desperate moan from Kid as he pulls Law’s shirt up and over his head.

It’s easier to forget this way, you see.

Kid stops, leaning back for a beat, drinking Law in like a man dying of thirst. The melting mess of a candle casts low shadows across his skin, gold light pooling in the dip of his neck, and for once Law is all curves, no harsh lines or angular edges, tattoos swooping and curving across his bare chest.

Kid rubs his thumb across the smiling heart jolly roger. “ _Fuck_. I missed you.”

He feels Law’s lips smirk against him as he falls back to his mouth, kiss hard and frantic. Kid pulls him close, lost in the sensation of Law’s heart thrumming against his own ribcage.

Later, when the night borders on morn, Kid thinks he may even hear the surgeon say _me too,_ as he eases into him—slowly, gently, Law shuddering beneath his touch as he loses himself.

Law drags his fingernails down Kid’s back in response, burying his face into his shoulder. There is a breath. A pause. Something empty, hollow, hanging in the air. Kid continues to move slowly, but Law has completely stopped, suspended in time, candlelight chasing every arc and dip of his muscle.

And then Law murmurs, face hidden: “I don’t want this to end.”

That feeling swoops back, an unwanted guest, the one that Kid can’t quite name.

_Something’s got him worried—_

Kid kisses Law again, trying to say all the things he can’t— _It won’t, I’m here, I lov—_ but his heart is burning, thudding with an awful tempo, and Kid feels helpless, lost, drowning in the abyss.

Alone.

*****

(It is only as the sky surrenders to dawn, sleep evading him, Law dead to the world in his lap, that Kid realises what he feels: what holds him there, frozen.

 _—Fear._ )

**viii**

They only take what they need;

Kid: two guns, a bowie knife, Killer and Heat;

And Law: Penguin, Kikoku, and Bepo’s vivre card.

The rest of their crews’ remain on Fisherman’s Point, Wire and Shachi taking the lead in their absence with Duke’s reassurance they will be safe. Kid leaves them with the _White Pearl_ , the ship large enough to comfortably house them all should something go awry. He doesn’t enjoy the idea of hiding underwater in a submarine until their destination, but Law is adamant—aggressively so—the subject dropped as soon as it is breached.

“Four days,” Law breathes, staring out the small port window as the _Polar Tang_ descends. “We’ll reach the island in four days.”

There is no answer aside from the steady beeping of the sonar, a discordant hum of engines, and through it all Kid hears Law sigh, a sound so long and low and nervous, that not even the abyss can hide its ache.

**viii .i**

Day one is lazy, spent mostly in tangled sheets, bored, as Law works at his desk. It is a chaotic mess, so unlike his usual clinical organisation—and it only gains in intensity as he writes more and more, scratching at parchment shit Kid cannot even begin to guess at.

The digital clock by the bedside reads 8pm when he finally asks, “What are you doing?”

“Preparing,” is the brusque answer.

“For what?”

“Anything.”

Childishly, Kid presses, “You must have some idea.”

Law stands then, suddenly, wooden chair scraping across the metal floor loudly in the quiet. He scoops up his notepad, book, and pencil in one hand, flicking the desklamp off with the other. Darkness engulfs them.

“Leave it, Eustass- _ya_.”

And then he is gone, out the door with a firm _snap_ , Kid’s throat inexplicably tight in his departure.

**viii .ii**

They aren’t fighting. Not really, anyway. No words have been said, and honestly, there’s nothing _to_ say.

But Law skirts around his edges, not avoiding him though not seeking him out either, and on their second night, Kid offers to take watch, desperate for distraction.

It’s better this way, he thinks, surrounded by the warm darkness, the steady _beep beep_ of machinery and thrum of steel lulling him into a half-sleep; away from the glacial captain’s quarters, and his even colder partner, silence bleeding out onto the ground between them, pressing them to the edges of four steel walls.

*****

_(He stares out over the stern where the sky meets the sea, and somewhere, a man is singing, a soft sound that ebbs and flows with each wave that laps at the hull. Beside him there is a familiar shadow, all angular lines and painted swirls, and it moves with the melody—somewhere, but not right, jagged, jerking, as if guided by string._

_It pauses, turns to him, faceless. He knows it, oh he does, and when it speaks, it pulls him near, holds him close, and breathes—_

Kid wakes, gasping for air, sprawled out on the cold metal floor with nothing but his coat for warmth. For a beat, there is just screaming silence, and then—

 _Beep, beep_ , a thrum, and—

“Hey. _Hey_.”

A hand slides into his open, sweaty palms, fingers interlacing, and Law brings himself down, laying out on the floor by his side. He buries his head into Kid’s shoulder, free hand rubbing over his face, fluttering across Kid’s open eyes.

“Go to sleep, Eustass- _ya_.”

And Kid does—can’t help it—the darkness drawing him back immediately, Law’s whispered words a saccharine lullaby, and for a moment he can _almost_ —)

**viii .iii**

Night three he brings Law dinner.

The cabin is empty, desklight flickering eerily in the dark, captain nowhere to be seen. Kid has never hesitated in his life and does not question it—doesn’t even think to—placing dinner on the bedside and heading straight for Law’s desk.

It is a fucking mess. Kid cannot even see the wood surface under all the scraps of paper and notepads, some with only a word per page. It’s written in Northern script, a language he’d never bothered to learn himself, and even if he could, it probably wouldn’t make sense anyway. It is the ravings of the paranoid, someone desperate for answers, searching for purpose; a man who has seen their death in a dream and is now spending every waking minute counting down the seconds to the end.

It is only now, harsh reality gripping his whole being, that Kid realises he knows nothing—absolutely _nothing_ —about Law. He thought he knew— _idiot_ —back on Sabaody, all those months ago. He had thought Law was just like him: a survivor. Burnt his way through the Grand Line, searching for the One Piece, powerful enough to scare the world. Answers witty and biting, and if that doesn’t solve the issue, blade to a throat will, won’t it?

But the image is unfurling, unravelling in all its ugly, bitter glory, and Kid can see it now, clear as day, as if it had been there all along.

Law is A _Survivor_.

Of what, he does not know—doesn’t think he’ll ever know—doesn’t think he could even _understand_.

Kid pulls a pile of newspaper clippings from the fray, frowning. Some of them are old—outrageously so—seemingly random at first glance, but then:

_World Government Passes Bill on Shichibukai, Restoring Balance After the Death of Gol D. Roger—_

_Jinbe, First Son of the Sea, Offered Shichibukai Status After—_

_Third Shichibukai Title Handed to World’s Greatest Swordsman—_

_Moriah, World Government’s—_

_Sir Crocodile, Fourth—_

_Donquixote Doflamingo—_

_Princess Boa Han—_

There it is again, that fear, clenching his heart.

Kid closes his eyes, throwing the papers back on the table, trepidation lurching cold and heavy in his stomach. He walks over to the bed, sits precariously on its edge, and he doesn’t want to know. His heart thuds, he can’t think, and he _does not want to know_.

The idle _click_ of a familiar heel is enough to shake him, and Kid looks up to see Law round the corner, Kikoku slung lazily over his shoulder. The shadow cast by his hat splits his face in half, obscuring his eyes, but Kid can almost _hear_ them track over the desk, looking for anything amiss.

“Eustass- _ya_ ,” he greets flatly, closing the door.

“I bought you dinner.”

“Thank you.” He drops the nodachi too hard against the door, and strides over, sinking into the mattress by Kid’s side. Their shoulders brush, smell of sandalwood and salt filling the air. “I suppose there are things you want to say.”

“Yeah. Eat.”

“Eustass—”

“I’m serious,” Kid says, firm, not looking at him. “We land in the morning and fuck knows what’s on that island: so, eat and sleep.”

An irritated, choked sound comes from Law. “That’s not—”

“Fuck. Look, just—” Kid leans past him, takes the plate of still warm food, and shoves it under his face. Law blinks. “Killer’s a pretty shitty cook, but he’ll be sad if you don’t eat it his stupid special stirfry, so.” He shakes the plate for empathises. “ _Eat_.”

Law takes it from him, face flickering through a myriad of emotions, and places it on his lap. He opens his mouth, takes a breath, snaps it shut; he licks his lips and frowns and tries again, voice unbelievably heavy, “Why aren’t you angry? You _hate_ the Government. You—”

“Because,” Kid says, falling onto his back, folding his arms beneath his head. Law is warm at his side; solid, comforting, serene. He closes his eyes. “I love you.”

There’s not a lot else to say, really.

*****

(When Kid jolts awake in the middle of the night, sound of snapping strings echoing in his dreams, Law is still there, fast asleep on his chest.

And Kid says it again and again and again—

—at least, in that moment, for him, it is enough.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies for any errors! Also, much credit to the song 'Blindspot' by Paul Dempsey. The song is so fitting it practically wrote this chapter for me.


	3. three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW, heavy chapter: blood, emotions, angst, violence—Kid having a generally shitty time. Also, I apologise, this chapter is quite fast-paced and written… not in a way I’m happy with, as there was a lot to get through and condense, but I had to post it so I can move on and stop obsessing. So, sorry about shitty editing, errors etc, etc., I just needed this chapter out of my life  
> (PS. Thank you SO, SO much for all your kind comments, it means so friggin much. Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

**leave the mess you've made.**

 

**ix.**

The laboratory is unnaturally dark.

Killer strikes a match, lighting a wooden torch that he swoops around the area slowly. They’re crowded in a bare metal tunnel, nervous breaths echoing loudly in the silence. There are no windows, no doors, no lights. Beneath the grime, moss and dirt that cakes the walls, something glints—and Kid can feel it, almost too loud once he realises: the steady pulse of iron that splatters across steel.

“What the fuck,” Kid says aloud.

“Human experimentation lab, if I were to guess,” Law drawls, way too calm. “From what I read, Vegapunk had a particular interest in devil fruits. I assume he was looking to make his own, but there is only one real way you can gather data on such a thing.”

From behind, Penguin lets out a pitiful whine. “ _Captain_.”

The ghost of a smirk touches Law’s lips, and they press on, him leading the way with Kid bringing up the rear. They’re silent, save for the odd caution to watch their step, or nervous titter from Penguin and Heat. Not that Kid can blame them, really. The place is _creepy_ , in the only way that an abandoned lab found by Law could be. Kid would have preferred a fleet of pirates to greet them than this absolute nothing _._ No light, no life, no _anything_. Pirates, Kid can at least fight, distract himself momentarily from this whole weird ordeal. This empty lab, however, just feels like a bitter reflection of his last few days on the submarine, floundering in darkness, trying to construct a complicated puzzle with half the pieces missing.

The path curves, to a dead end with an iron door that Kid crushes apart immediately, the metal bending and warping beneath his power. It clatters to the ground, revealing a curving stairwell that winds upwards, and down, to what must be a basement.

“Killer- _ya_ , a light.”

The small torch barely touches the dark, flame reflecting oddly, dancing up and down, casting long shadows across the naked walls. Killer sweeps it back and forth, exposing nothing, and sighs.

“Split-up?” Kid asks. There’s a bolt near his feet that he kicks down the steps, listening to the echo _ting_ and bounce and _clang_ for what feel likes an age. “Not gonna get far like this.”

“You’re right,” Law agrees. His tone is brusque, irritated, fingers tapping rhythmically on the sheath of his sword. He reaches into his coat, pulling out a sleeping mini-transponder snail to pass to Penguin. “Remember: anything you can find on the _Shichibukai_ , Caesar Clown or Punk Hazard.”

Penguin’s eyes widen. “You’re not coming with me?”

“No,” Law replies flatly. “You’re to head down with Killer- _ya_. I doubt there will be anything there, but we have to cover all our bases.”

“What—Captain—”

“This is not up for discussion, Penguin,” he snaps, tone instantly icy. “We will regroup on the beach in five hours. That should give us plenty of time. _Do not question me_.”

Penguin’s eyes sharpen beneath the brim of his hat, but he’s smart enough to not mutiny against orders, closing his mouth with an audible _click._ Killer lights another torch, and hands it to Heat, the two flames dancing and curving around the walls.

“Five hours,” Law reiterates. He shrugs _Kikoku_ over to his other shoulder, still _tap, tap, tapping,_ locking eyes with Kid through the half-light. “Sufficient?”

“This is your dance, Trafalgar.” Kid gives Killer the cursory ‘don’t fuck up’ clap on the back, his only reply a curt nod. “Let’s stop fucking around.”

**ix .i**

An hour passes.

Then two.

The trio stop to explore every room that spans off the stairwell, Heat guarding the door, with Kid and Law tearing the small spaces apart. They’re agitated, bouncing off walls and each other, the tension from their trip that was briefly forgotten upon arrival returning violently. They come up empty-handed every time, and Law is _livid_ , the kind of rage that seeps quietly into the air around him.

It puts Kid on edge. In a big way.

Anger and frustration curl inside him, and in the tenth room that is just full of shit—chairs and tables and lab equipment scattered around in a haphazard mess—Kid completely loses it, hurling folders of useless data to the roof, kicking a desk chair into the wall and relishing it splinter and explode. Bit by bit, he whirls through the room, tearing it completely apart with a violent intensity that he can barely contain.

A minute passes before Law grabs his arm, fingernails digging into his skin painfully. _“Don’t_.”

“Fuck off.”

Kid wrenches out of his grasp, and Law stumbles in response, hat falling off his head. His eyes flash dangerously, blue sphere of Room expanding before Kid can even retaliate.

“ _Takt._ ”

A large, overturned metal desk rises from the floor, flying towards him at an unnaturally fast speed. Kid tries to halt it with his power, but he’s useless in Room, throwing himself to the floor just in time as it smashes into the wall behind him, shaking the whole building on its fixtures.

Kid staggers to a stand. “You _fuck_ —”

Law doesn’t let him gather himself, doesn’t hesitate, _Kikoku_ out of her sheath and splitting the air before him. The room crackles with electricity, but Kid has this one, can see the Alabasta steel blade not totally within its owner’s control. He pulls the nodachi towards him, and Law’s eyes widen as he tumbles forward, trips.

Kid’s hand wraps around the blade, wrenching him close, his breaths hot and fast on Law’s flustered face.

“I’ve been very patient, Trafalgar.”

He grips _Kikoku_ tighter, feels her sing as his hand splits open under her touch, blood dripping onto the floor. Law stares at it for a long, long time, the steady _drip, drip, drip_ the only sound in the silence, before he drags his gaze back to Kid’s. He licks his lips, eyes dancing with hunger, Room closing in on them like a laser.

“When are you going to get over yourself and admit there’s nothing here?”

“No.” The arrogance of him is incredible, really, voice full of confidence and certainty even now, as Kid towers over him in the dark. “I’m not wrong.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Kid hisses, wrenching him forward again, Law now pressed so close to him that he’s leaning back to see Kid’s face. His palm stings from the cut, but Kid ignores it; squeezes even tighter, blood now pissing out of the wound and pooling onto the metal floor. “We’ve searched for two hours and have found _nothing_.”

Law holds his gaze. Stays silent.

“Fuck you, and your fucking pride, Trafalgar. Admit it. There’s nothing here.”

Silence.

“ _Law.”_ The name is foreign, like acid on his tongue. Kid grits his teeth. “ _Say it_.”

“No.” Law pauses, eyes flicking away briefly. Then, a whisper: “No.”

“Why?”

No answer, once more, and Kid has had enough. He let’s go of _Kikoku_ with a forceful push, Law stumbling backwards with surprise. Kid’s palm throbs with pain, and he looks down, blood already clotting and turning an ugly black around the edges of his wound.

Vaguely, he is aware of Room disappearing, and then the long, drawn out sound of Law’s nodachi returning to her sheath.

Kid closes his fist, clenches his jaw, and hisses. “ _Damn_.”

“Let me see.”

Unexpectedly, Law is in his space, taking Kid’s wounded hand in his own without waiting for permission. His palm is cold beneath Kid’s heated, bloody hand, and he feels so soft, so comforting, so safe. Anger forgotten, Kid just stares as Law ghosts the outline of the cut, expression indecipherable, blood staining the tips of his index finger a bright, vivid red.

“Oi,” Kid says after a minute, voice croaky.

“What?”

Nothing. He has nothing to say, but Law seems to already know, like always, and breathes deep, like he’s letting something go. He leans forward into Kid until his forehead touches his bare chest. They stay like that for what feels like an age, maybe two, hand in hand, Law’s head rising and falling with each breath Kid takes.

“Oi,” Kid says again, and this time, he knows what to follow up with, free hand tilting Law’s jaw so he can see his face. “I’m gonna kiss you.”

Law smirks. “I’d like—”

“Captain Kid!”

Heat’s panic is like electricity, jolting them apart, all pretence forgotten. Kid doesn’t hesitate, gun drawn, immediately out the door. Law scoops up his abandoned hat, hot on his heels.

Heat is halfway down the stairwell they’d been ascending, leaning over the railing and peering into the darkness below. The flame flickers weakly in his hand.

“There’s something there,” he breathes, eyes wide and terrified.

Ice seeps down Kid’s spine, a thousand bugs crawling beneath his skin. Behind him, Law asks, “Are you sure? I can’t detect—”

“Heat’s never wrong,” Kid interrupts. “That’s why I bought him.” He licks his chapped lips, already knowing the answer, but asking anyway, “Killer? Penguin?”

Heat, predictably, shakes his head. “It’s not _human_.”

“Huh.”

Silence draws out, stifling, before Law steps up to Kid’s side, locking eyes with him. “We don’t have time for this.”

“No, you don’t,” Kid agrees, cocking his gun with a _click_. “Beach in three hours, yeah?”

More silence. Longer this time, pregnant with choice, almost hesitant. Then:

“Three hours.” Law pulls another mini-transponder snail from his coat, giving one sharp nod as he hands it over.

Kid pockets it with a wink and a grin. “Don’t look so nervous, Trafalgar. You know nothing can kill me.”

Law smirks at that, turning to leave; then pauses, shoulders tensing. Kid sees his hand tighten around _Kikoku_ , and he is immediately pooling out his own power in response, feeling the steel around him to sense anything amiss.

“What—” Kid starts, but Law whirls back around, hand fisting into his jacket, pulling Kid towards him with unnatural strength—

Metal.

Law tastes like metal, rusted on the tip of Kid’s tongue. His mouth is burning hot, the hand splaying open on Kid’s chest extraordinarily cold, however…

There is a warmth seeping out of him here, one Kid can’t understand, has never truly felt before. He pulls Law into him, the small moans he breathes stirring something in Kid’s chest, almost painfully so, like his lungs are _blooming, exploding._

“Eustass- _ya_ ,” Law drawls, sucking in a shaky breath.

 _Ah, no, don_ _’t do that_ , Kid thinks, _don_ _’t say my name like that._

But then Law does again, and again, and Kid will never—ever, ever, _ever_ —get enough of this. Law’s hand feathers up, following the curve of Kid’s neck, and wraps around as he leans in for another kiss, dragging a desperate and embarrassing groan out of Kid. They push and pull, a second where both struggle and stumble, until he falls back against the cool steel wall with Law flush against him, his hips rolling hard against Kid’s crutch.

Too much. Intoxicating. Like he’s downed a whole bottle of whiskey in one go.

Kid pulls back, has to breathe, let his brain realign. The world is spinning, spinning, spinning.

There is a moment where neither of them moves, silence settling peacefully between them, before Law steps back, that comforting idle _click_ of his heel echoing down and up the stairwell.

Kid mumbles something that not even he can understand, and Law smirks again, head bowing to shadow his eyes beneath that spotty hat.

“Three hours, Eustass- _ya._ ”

And then he is gone, disappearing up into darkness; everything still, silent, flat.

“Captain?”

 _Heat. Yes. Move_.

Kid tightens his hand around his gun, grounding him back to the now, the present, the stairs, the goal. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

**ix .ii**

Thirty minutes later, their torch flickers and dies, plunging them into absolute darkness. Heat tries to relight it, but it is like it has been soaked in sea water, refusing to take any flame at all.

Kid says, heart sinking to the metal floor, “Maybe we’ll find another one on the way.”

And Heat just nods, says nothing, dropping the stick to the ground where is makes a strange wet _thud_.

In the dark, with the smell of rust seeping from walls, the title _captain_ suddenly feels worthless, and they press together, one small step at a time, the only sound their nervous breaths that echo in the abyss.

**ix .iii**

They lose track of time.

They’ve descended far, the staircase reaching its end long ago. A part of him—the only hope he really holds at this point—wonders if they’ll run into Killer and Penguin. It is a basement they wander through, their steps accompanied by a steady _drip, drip_ of water, and _whoosh_ of the warm breeze outside sneaking through an open door. A thin puddle of wetness pools around them, Kid vaguely aware that it must be seawater, his movements turning sluggish and languid as they press on. The disgusting smell of rust hangs heavy in the air now, only gaining in intensity as the water seems to rise.

Kid pauses eventually, nausea stirring his stomach.

“Ah, Heat, wait—fuck.”

He leans against the slimy wall, covering his eyes with his forearm, trying to focus on his breathing. But the smell is _overbearing_ , leaking into him, rusted, corroded, bloody—he’s going to be—sick—

His stomach lurches, and Kid leans forward, retching at his feet with an awful splatter. The rust smell is fucking everywhere, eating away at his stomach, and he groans, head spinning, hurling one more time. Every muscle aches, and he’s sliding to the ground, knees buckling beneath him—

And feels it.

His senses rush back to him immediately, and Kid _feels_ it, so intensely, so suddenly. It snakes around him, deadening every muscle, pulling him down like the bottom of the ocean. His skin crawls, and he tries to move—manages to pull himself up to a shaky stand. His gun is in his hand, but there is nothing there, nothing he can see—just dark, cold, horrid, dark—and Kid wonders if maybe he _has_ fallen into the ocean, lost in some half-dream, on the brink of drowning.

—Then Heat gasps.

Kid knows. Knows it before he has even turned—before he has time to register what is happening.

He turns, and Heat gasps, again and again, this awful, inhumane sound drawn out of him, desperate for air. Kid just stares into his panicked stricken eyes, unable to move as his crewmate—his fucking _friend_ —scratches weakly at the claw piercing his throat, trying in vain to pull it away. Blood dribbles from his lips, trails down his chest from the gaping wound around his neck, and—

_—Heat_

—there’s a shadow there, hissing

— _move_! fuck

—fuck _, fuck fuckfuckfuck—_

Kid moves then. Finally. One foot in front of the other before he is launching across the hall, slamming into the—the _thing_ —that holds Heat. Kid knows it’s too late for his old friend—so much blood, _fuck—_ but at least he can kill this fucking thing—rip its hands apart—tear at its face—make it fucking _suffer_.

It shrieks on impact, and they crash into the floor, Kid barely registering his own movements as he slams the barrel of his pistol into the side of its head, over and over and over. It screams again, sound echoing forever, locking eyes with him through the black blood that pours down its face.

It is like nothing Kid has ever seen before. A fishman, he thinks, but it is unlike any other he saw on Fishman Island, scales layered in a glossy slime with wide, gaping gills that line its jaw. Its mouth is pulled back into an ugly snarl, revealing a set of razor sharp teeth that drip with spit. It hisses at him as he stares, and Kid doesn’t recover fast enough, its movements like lightening as it grabs the side of his face in an iron grip.

Kid is frozen in its hold, and slowly, cruelly, as if savouring the sensation, its claws drag down his face. Pain _explodes_ , darkness closing in on him immediately, but the thing doesn’t stop, continuing right down to his shoulder. Blood stings Kid’s eyes, warm and sticky, and he flails for a moment, weakly trying to push it away, gun clattering to the metal floor.

 _Metal_.

It hisses, pushing Kid off with all the force of a giant. He slams into the wall with a _bang_ , crumpling into a limp heap on the ground. Kid tries to pool his power into the floor beneath them, but the seawater, though low, weakens him momentarily—and then the thing is back on him, leering over him with a feral snarl. It grabs his head, slams it into the ground, stars exploding in front of his eyes like fireworks. Then it snaps at Kid’s arm, teeth sinking in on the second try with a sickening _crunch_. It drags them down, tearing his skin like fabric, like it’s nothing at all.

Kid yells. He’s going now. Can feel it. The world spinning and flashing in vivid images that don’t make any sense

—a ship, the sea, treasure, Heat—

_Metal._

There is a grating noise, and Kid feels the floor shift beneath him, the steel pulsing with his power. The thing keeps tearing at his arm, but he has it, the floor caving with a sudden, deafening _crack._ It gives a satisfying scream, releasing its jaws from Kid as it falls.

There is the fleeting sense of satisfaction, before the floor completely disintegrates, Kid losing all control. He tumbles with steel rubble, hitting his head on something sharp, and falling into the darkness below.

**x.**

_Blep, blep, blep… Blep, blep, blep… Blep, blep, blep…_

**xi.**

The next moments are unbelievable visions, the too bright dreams from pain and fever.

A transponder snail constantly rings, hand on his chest, a yell, metal in and around him, rust on the tip of his tongue—

He sees Heat die. Over. And over. And over—

Over.

**xii.**

Desperation claws his throat dry, and he knows there are words to be said, but Kid does not know what they are or who they’re for, and again and again there is just the cold, bottomless ocean—arm torn for the two-hundredth time—stomach tearing itself apart from the inside—

 _“Eustass-_ ya, _please. Please.”_

Trafalgar Law is there.

**xiii.**

(Killer meets him on the beach, their five hours up, whole body darkening when he sees Kid approach alone. Penguin and Law are there, the Heart Captain looking as impatient as ever, pacing at the shore line in hurried steps.

Kid beelines directly for their shitty dingy, grabbing the rope and dragging it to the ocean.

“Where have you been?” Law snaps, eyes flashing in the midday light.

But before he can answer, Killer jumps forward, all over him, hissing through his mask, “ _Where is Heat_?”

Kid licks his dry lips, throat like sandpaper. No words are forming, and fuck, his head _hurts_ , like it’s been split with an axe. He tries again to say something, but he can’t—nothing, stupid, dumb—returning to dragging the boat out to sea, desperate to leave this island.

Then Law says, “Eustass-ya—”)

_“—…my concern… trying… bloodflow—”_

(He groans, head pulsing, vision blurring. His brain feels like it’s about to crawl out of his skull, and he drops the rope, pressing his palm to his temple to try and contain the feeling.

“Wait.” Kid finds his voice then, tongue thick in his mouth, barely forming the word. He stares at Law, who stands in front of him, eyes like daggers. “What did you say?”)

“—again, because of _you_. _You_ owe _him_ —”

(Wait, no. Killer? He turns to his first mate, who stands to the side, arms folded defensively.

“No, I meant, what did Trafalgar say.” Kid stumbles forward with his words, sand shifting dangerously beneath his feet. The world is flickering now, too bright—so bright. Blinding.)

“— _my_ ship and tell me how to do _my_ job—”

(Law.

He’s angry. Why?

Kid can hear him as he sinks with the sand, Law’s voice dragging across his skin.

“We aren’t on your ship,” Kid slurs. He rolls onto his back, the sky swirling like a hurricane above. It is so very bright and blue, can’t Law see that, can’t he see how beautiful it is, they could just fall into it—)

And maybe he does, because after that, there is nothing.

**xiv.**

His arm burns. Fire, licking from his shoulder and down, scorching heat, like his skin is being torn apart, blood painting red ribbons in the blue, blue sky—

Kid may call his name.

**xv.**

_Kikoku_.

She is the first thing Kid feels, as the world starts to weave itself back together.

 

* * *

 

 

**_and, breathe._ **

 

**xv .i**

Then: metal. Steel. Thrumming at his side, a steady, soft hum in the back of his throbbing head. It takes away the burning, and it is cool, sure, whole—

**xv .ii**

The third is Killer. He talks about Wire, about telling him something… Kid can’t quite make out his words, everything just this strange, mumbled ringing echoing in his ears.

Vaguely aware he is laying down, Kid tries to sit up. He mutters, “Wait, I have something to tell you,” ready to say, “I’m so sorry”—because if anyone should ever get his apology, it is Killer, his brother, his most loyal friend, and fuck he is _sorry sorry sorry_ —

But there is a pressure on his chest, and he is being pulled down again, darkness swooping in and swallowing him whole, and just before he falls asleep he hears Killer sigh and say, “I’m sorry I let you down, Captain.”

And that’s not right, because it is Kid who let him down.

It is Kid who failed him.

**xvi.**

Kid wakes.

It is not a jolt awake. It is not a gasp. It is not the startling slam of reality taking him over.

Kid wakes slowly, languorously, body weighted down like he has just fallen into the ocean. The room is dark, but not dark enough that he can’t see, and as his eyes adjust, sounds wash over him—the steady _beep, beep_ of medical machinery, a distinct _drip_ , and then the flutter of a page being turned. Candlelight casts shadows along metal walls, and there is a soft green light from the screen by Kid’s bedside, full of graphs and numbers that he cannot make out.

Sandalwood, spearmint and spice envelop him, and Kid is so keenly aware of his presence it _hurts_.

Unaware he is awake, Kid watches as Law reads, cool golden eyes flitting back and forth across the page of a large tomb. A half-finished wine bottle sits on the table at his side, empty glass next to it, his tattooed hands dancing just on the edges of the leatherbound book. Every bit of him is lazy and loose, hat forgone and unkempt hair falling into his eyes, one leg crossed over the other as he takes a deep breath, leaning further into his chair.

He is so _calm_. So _gorgeous._

Through the _beep, beep_ , Kid says, “Hey” like that—like that fucking word can sum up everything he is thinking, everything he wants to say, everything he feels.

But it must, because Law's eyes snap to him then, widening, dancing in the candlelight as his face breaks into an extraordinary smile. “Hey.”

Kid grins, heart thudding at an insane pace, throat inexplicably tight. They stare at one another for an age, before Law shuts his book and stands, walking over to his machinery, taking up a clipboard and doctor-ing everywhere, with hums and _ah’_ s and sighs.

“You’ve been asleep for nearly a fortnight, Eustass- _ya_.” There is a relief in his voice that even Law, always so calm and collected, can’t hide. He helps Kid sit upright in bed, bringing a glass of water to his lips that he downs in one go. Law then places it back on the table, looking back to his clipboard and scribbling something down. “How does your arm feel?”

Kid blinks. “What—”

Ah. _Ah._

Ahhhh.

“What the—what—”

Law dumps his clipboard on the table, immediately falling into the tiny bed and gripping Kid’s _not metal arm what the fuck—_

“Eustass—dammit, I thought you noticed, I—”

Kid, absently aware that Law is still babbling, looks down at his left arm, rotating it slowly, unable to really believe what he is seeing.

A metal arm.

Steel. Perfectly constructed, of course—his creation, one he had made about two years ago for one of the many robots that he’d never gotten around to completing. And now—

Well, shit.

“Where—”

“Killer,” Law says immediately, something akin to worry in his eyes. “Killer- _ya_ mentioned that you had made it a while ago and brought it to me; asked me to fix it on like a prosthetic. Don’t worry, I’ve made it remov—”

Kid pushes him off the bed. Which is easy, by the way, because his awesome metal arm seems to have the strength of twenty men or more.

Law lands onto the cold floor with an angry _oof_ , glaring up at him like he’d committed nothing short of a murder, and Kid can’t help it—bursting into laughter that echoes gleefully around them.

“Fucking sick.”

Law, despite himself, grins up at him. “Do you like it?”

“Fuck yeah.” Kid goes back to studying it, smile hurting his jaw it’s so wide. “This is—”

And then, he remembers.

Odd, that this wasn’t the first thing to come to mind. Odder still, that it doesn’t hound every breath he takes. Death is not something that is a foreign concept to Kid, after all—haunting his every step for most of his life—and yet.

And yet.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice too fragile, too open. He doesn’t like this, not one bit, but it’s pouring out of him now, uncontainable, images of Heat desperate for air all he can see. “ _Fuck._ That really happened.”

“Eustass- _ya_.” Law stands, slides back onto the bed and touches his face lightly. Kid can feel him trace the stubble that has grown long over the days of his bedrest—and he leans forward, touching his lips to the corner of Kid’s mouth, breath cooling on his warm face. “We brought him back to your ship, for your crew to see him off. He drifted south, before Killer- _ya_ set the boat alight. I’m… I’m sorry.”

 _Me too_ , Kid thinks, but those words will just fall flat now, too empty, too hollow.

“Did you at least find what you were looking for?” Kid asks instead.

Something shadows across Law’s face—dark, cursed, flickering with malice; but then it is gone as quick as it appeared, and Law sends him a small smile, one that’s wrong, all sad and empty and guilty.

“Yeah, I did. Thank you.”

Kid slithers back into the starchy sheets, suddenly heavy, sinking, sleep clouding his brain. He feels Law shift, settling in by his side and draping an arm across his chest, the other ghosting across his face, brushing Kid’s hair from his eyes. Lips press to his temples, and Kid is falling now, sigh escaping his lips, dreams already dancing around the corners of his vision.

“Eustass- _ya_.” Whisper, so soft, barely audible in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“I—” A breath. “I love you.”

And that is the last thing Kid remembers of Trafalgar Law.


	4. four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mild non-graphic torture (and me starting to get creative with canon...)

**when fate comes.**

**_(9 months later)_ **

**xvii.**

Three in the morning, four days before It Happens, five cards are drawn and placed face-down on the old, scuffed wooden table. They are torn, ugly faded things, and Kid taps the middle one— _tap, tap, tap—_ not putting down his now-warm mug of ale, smiling to himself at the stupidity of it all.

“My mother used to do this dumb shit, too, y’know,” he says, taking a drink and leaning back on two legs of his chair precariously. “Her and her friends would have parties—”

“Readings.”

“—and burn this smelly shit—”

“Incense.”

“Yeah, well the whole house would smell like shit for days, it was fucking disgusting.”

Basil Hawkins makes an unimpressed _tsk_ sound then, mouth forming a thin line as he turns the chosen card over. He’s all slender fingers and subtle movements, tracing the outline of the frayed card with a frown.

“These are the arts from the South,” he says, voice, as always, bland and impassive. “I assumed you would be familiar with them.”

“Familiar enough to know it’s bullshit.”

“Of course. Because your mother would see this.” Not a question, and he slides the chosen card along the scratched table, unnerving eyes betraying no emotion as Kid picks it up. “How many times have you drawn this?”

Kid glares at it, then him, before flicking it back with the others cards spread out before The Magician. His stomach knots unpleasantly, and he has the sudden, desperate urge to punch something.

He drains the last of his drink, the bitter taste resting on his tongue as he spits, “ _Bullshit._ ”

“It is fate. There is no point in denying it.”

“It’s a fucking card—”

“The same one throughout your whole life?”

Kid leans forward then, back on all four legs of his chair with a _bang._ He places his elbows on the table, baring his teeth in a feral sneer. “What are you trying to say?”

Hawkins holds his gaze, face still infuriatingly impassive. He brings the card back closer to him, picks it up with twist of his wrist, and taps it in the air. It floats before them, hiding half his face from view. “Do you know what this means? Do you know what fate—”

“Stop,” Kid grinds out. “Stop saying that fucking word. I’ve played your stupid games, but I’m not—”

“Let go of the past.”

Kid closes his mouth with an audible _click_ , standing so suddenly his chair topples backwards on the floor. He needs—a drink—or bed—or something—quickly striding across the room and uncorking a Western whiskey with a _pop_ , gulping a mouthful straight from the bottle. It burns and feels _good_ , distracting him momentarily from the pain that throbs across his temple, his face, his whole body.

“Who told you?” Kid asks—then: “No, you know what? I don’t wanna know about it.” He gulps another mouthful, breaking the tense silence that he’s sure is only tense on his part. Hawkins keeps drawing more cards, twelve of them floating before him now. “I just—fuck.”

“You have lost your way,” Hawkins says, voice so _blank_ , so fucking _emotionless_ , “that this card does not see your goal anymore. I see his step. There is no way to avoid it. You are tied to him,” he drags a card across the air before him, placing it over another, spinning them both so they face upside-down, “as much as he is tied to you. That is the link of fate.”

It’s been nine months since Kid woke, alone, with nothing but a transponder snail by his side that has not rung since—nine months since he was left picking up the pieces of a ghost—six months since the newspapers revealed him _Shichibukai_ —one month since his _alliance_ with that little _shit_ Mugiwara—

Kid spits, words like acid, “He is _not_ tied to _anyone_.”

_Least of all me._

Hawkins shoulders stiffen, ever-so-slightly, the first betrayal of emotion in these early hours. The moon casts eerie shadows across the floating cards as they start to spin, disjointed, out-of-time, like a broken log pose. “Then why do you still wait for him?”

Kid takes another drink, sour burn sliding down his throat, but does not answer, has no answer.

 

(And when he falls asleep, as the sun starts to rise, the Hanged Man continues to spin and spin under Hawkins’ touch, the harmonic sound of snapping strings drowning him in nightmares that are filled with nothing but smiles)

**xviii.**

Killer kicks him awake come noon, with an “Oi,” a cup of coffee, and “Apoo wants to talk.”

Honestly the last thing Kid wants to do, but as the mug is shoved in his hands and his velvet curtains are ripped aggressively open to drown the him in sunlight, he can see that there is no room for argument.

“I wanted to show you first though.”

Shielding his eyes from the atrocious brightness, Kid takes a sip, brain jolting happily from the caffeine. He watches over the rim of his mug as Killer starts to pace the room, something he never does unless nervous, twirling one of his swords between his fingers.

“The suspense is killing me,” Kid says, voice flat. “Literally. I have to piss so hurry up.”

“You spoken to Trafalgar?”

Kid almost spits out his mouthful of coffee.

Outside, there is a shout, followed up by laughter; and then it’s weird, like his brain can’t quite keep up with the world, everything turning into a low hum around him, and he remembers that there’s a small leak in the hull of _The White Pearl_ that he must fix today, and that Wire had requested a number of weapons for their fleet just outside of Big Mom’s territory.

“Why,” Kid starts slowly, when it’s clear Killer is offering no more to the conversation, “the fuck does everyone keep talking about—”

_him._

It had been a peaceful nine months of Kid not dealing with this shit, and right now—right now he really didn’t want to _deal_ with this _shit_.

“Because of this.” Killer flicks a rolled-up newspaper at him, seemingly pulled from thin air, and says, “He’s up to something.”

“Yeah, that’s his thing,” Kid snaps bitterly.

He places his empty mug on the beside and unrolls the paper, spreading it out before him. He expects to see another vague article about Law and Mugiwara, but instead, the face of _Shichibukai_ , Doflamingo, stares back at him, words _retired_ and _Dressrosa_ plastered across the front page in big block letters.

Kid’s heart drops to the floor.

“Apoo thinks you know something about this,” Killer says with an airy wave like it can encompass the whole scenario. “Started talking about Sabaody, when you and Trafalgar joined against Kuma. Started asking the crew questions. He’s getting antsy, Kid. He’s been hounding me for you since nine this morning.”

“You worried about him?” Kid asks.

“Yeah.”

“And Hawkins?”

“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen him.”

Kid drags a hand down his face with a tired sigh. He’s suddenly feeling incredibly old and incredibly out of his depth, and incredibly, incredibly confused. At Law. At himself. At literally everything. It’s not a feeling that he is enjoying.

Killer asks, “Do you know why he—”

“No,” Kid interrupts, irked. “I don’t know shit about the man so stop asking all these fucking questions. We haven’t spoken since Blue Hole, and I’m _glad._ Trafalgar, Mugiwara, the _Shichibukai_ —not our fucking issue. If he wants to go start a fucking war: good. I hope he’s—”

Kid grinds his teeth, rage curling and boiling in his chest, like he’s been punched in the heart. Killer stands quietly, says nothing, but the word hangs in the air, unspoken, untouched, too deep a wound to stitch.

Time has not made it easier.

After a minute, Kid takes a deep breath. Says, “I need you and six others to take a sloop out Big Mom’s boarders and hand over the cargo to Wire. It should have all the weapons he requested but get Flick to go over the list and triple check them. No—wait— _you_ triple check them. Wire will be on his own once we engage Shanks, so there’s no room for error.”

“Aye, captain.”

“And Hawkins—find him. Get him and Apoo to meet me in the dining hall in an hour. And bring those maps on my desk, with the log pose—we need to go over boundaries again.”

Killer nods, turns. But then he hesitates, and Kid can feel the lead in the air, this dead weight that neither wants to breach.

So, he says, “Don’t,” and Killer doesn’t, leaving Kid alone in the absolute silence, that transponder snail still within easy reach, still asleep, just in case.

Just in case.

**xix.**

He’s below deck, fixing the leak, when he calls.

It’s late evening now, candlelight Kid’s solitary company, tools scattered around him in a chaotic mess that only he can understand. A spanner levitates into his hand, all his concentration pooling into the bolt that holds together the knitted tar when he takes the ringing den-den from his pocket. He’s expecting Killer, informing him of the supply drop and Wire’s debrief, and doesn’t think as he throws the snail on the floor with a grunt of, “Yeah, go on.”

“Eustass- _ya_.”

Kid almost dies.

The spanner he holds drops to the floor with a _thud,_ denting the wood, and the bolt wiggles away from him, everything sort of tilting at a wrong angle. He stares at the den-den, the snail breathing way too heavy, sweat tracing the lines of its face. Something’s wrong, clearly, and Kid’s fingers twitch, mind racing 100 knots per hour as he tries to think of what to say.

“There isn’t much time,” Law says after a moment, breathless. There is the sound of something crashing, an explosion, and then… a gunshot? Kid can hear _Kikoku_ singing through it all. “I just wanted to—”

“What the _fuck_.” Kid snatches the snail off the floor, gripping it so tight it’s little eyes nearly pop out of its head. “You—you _fucker_ —”

There’s a manic laughter coming from the other end, so unlike Law, and he says, “I expected—” A gasp, a curse, the sound of someone slipping. “Damn!”

“Trafalgar, what’s going on?” Kid says. He collects his tools in one clean sweep, dumping them into the box with a _slam_. “Where the fuck are you? Dressrosa? I’m coming.”

“Always so diligent, Eustass- _ya._ Even after all this time.”

“Shut the fuck up and tell me _exactly where you are._ We aren’t done.”

“No, we—”

And then the den-den screams “ _Law_!” in a voice so cold, so mocking, so _hungry_. He can see the snail mirror Law’s face, frozen with fear as a gunshot pierces the silence of Kid’s ship, followed by the unmistakable gasp of pain.

Ice grips his heart, and Kid can’t move, can’t speak, can’t think.

Heavy panting comes from the other end of the line, and Law breathes, too quiet, “You still there?”

“Did you—” Kid licks his dry lips, mouth like a desert, grip slackening on the den-den in his hand. His lungs hurt and his heart hurts and _shit_. Shit. “Why did you call?”

“My crew’s on Zou,” Law says evasively, voice heavy with discomfort. “If you have time, go visit them. I’m sure they’d be happy to see you all.”

“Trafalgar—”

“Oh, and the pub there. It’s good, apparently—better than Duke’s. Not that that is difficult—”

“Trafalgar. Why? Why are you calling me? Why are you…”

Kid takes a shaky breath. His vision blurs. Rubbing at his eyes, he tries to think, tries to say more, but he can see the blood pooling down the side of the snail’s face and _why_ , why now, why here, _why, why, why—_

There is a long pause, before Law swallows and answers, voice so unbelievably heavy, “I just needed to hear your voice.”

And then the line is dead, explosion shaking the snail in his palm, nothing but silence following its wake—and Kid can’t—

He just can’t.

**xx.**

Things aren’t so clear cut the next three days. Unsure if Law is even alive, Kid falls back into what he knows, obsessing, agitated, jumping from ship repairs to drinking way too much, and ordering his fleet to move, each advance risker than the last. Sleep is an elusive friend he does not know, and every time he thinks he can drift, he jerks awake not an hour later, gunshots, smiles, and manic laughter echoing through his empty room.

And then, the day It Happens, Admiral Issho tells the world about Doflamingo.

It is a grey day, the windows marred by rain and battered with wind. They are in the communications room, Killer sitting at the desk, running over figures of their weapon cache and treasury. Kid is sprawled out on the cold tile floor, listening to the announcement. There’s a tightness in his chest that won’t go away, and Killer interjects every now and again, as if to bring him back to the present, and the goal in mind.

Eventually, Kid stirs, and sits up, mind foggy and lethargic. He drags a hand through his hair and looks out the window, into the watered sky. “Let’s make a move while everyone’s distracted.”

Killer looks up from his papers. He’s taken off his mask, hair a knotted mess framing his face, and he looks tired, too, almost pallid in the dull light. “Hawkins and Apoo—”

“Don’t care. They want my fleet, they follow my orders.” Kid flexes his metal hand, grinning. “Mugiwara can’t have all the fun.”

Killer is silent, returning to his work, mouth downturned. He says, “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why?” Kid snaps. He glares at him. “Let’s _do_ it. All this planning is doing my fucking head in. I need to fuck something up.”

“Do you really want to know why?” Killer asks, voice kind of muffled. He sounds testy, annoyed.

“Yep.”

“I have a list.”

Kid almost laughs. “You’re a wet blanket, you know that, right?”

“And you—” Killer puts down his pen, looking up then, blue eyes burning into Kid’s across the expanse of the room. Issho continues to drone on in the background, nothing but a low fuzz. “You’ve been reckless, making stupid-ass orders that _I_ have to keep retracting. Entering Totto Land? Are you fucking insane? Do you have a suicide wish?”

Kid grits his teeth. “You’ve been ignoring my orders?”

“Of _course_ ,” Killer snipes, not even flinching.

“That’s mutiny.”

“Yes, it is. And you should know me better than that.” Killer holds his gaze. “Kid, you—”

The phone rings.

It’s so sudden, so loud in the cold room, that both men just stare at the waking snail that sits at the desk for a whole minute before Kid eventually finds the energy to move. He goes to answer, hand hovering for a beat, before Killer reaches out, grabbing his wrist and holding him still.

“Oi—wait—do you want me to leave?” He looks at Kid. “I mean—”

Kid wrenches out of his hold, says, “No,” and stares at him. He wants to say, “Law’s dead and I heard him die”, but he can’t find the words, can’t really think clearly at all. So instead, he just goes for another “No” and a “Don’t leave” the request safe, good, secure.

Killer nods, and Kid answers the phone.

“Yeah?”

Kid sounds so _flat_ , even he can hear it in his own voice, ready for the news that’s about to come, and all he can hope is that it’s not that fucking Mugiwara to tell him, because he’s pretty sure he is about 0.2 seconds away from destroying this whole fucking island and he knows that little _shit_ will be the one to tip him over the—

A soft chuckle jars his thoughts. “Eustass- _ya_. You sound like you’re the one who almost died.”

Kid blanches.

He falls forward, grabs the table, gripping so hard the wood splinters beneath his metal hand. His whole world zones in at that one point on the desk where the den-den sits, smug smirk gracing its features.

“ _You_ —” Kid growls, words rough, like they’re being ripped from his throat. He’s so angry, so relieved, so exhausted—his heart thuds and his eyes sting and everything just starts to make sense again, starts to fall in place perfectly. “You shitty _fuck_.”

“I know,” Law drawls. He sounds tired, too, but the den-den is smiling now, actually smiling, and Kid’s chest physically hurts staring at it, desperate to see that grin on Law, to punch it, to kiss it, to run his fingers across it. “I really shouldn’t have called you the other day, but I…”

He fades, and Kid says, voice barely audible even to his own ears, “I thought you died.”

“Yeah,” Law says, tone whisper-soft. “So did I.”

There is a silence, punctuated by the gentle sound of a door being closed. Kid is suddenly aware that he is alone, Killer taking his leave. He picks up the snail, smiling, sinking down to the ground once more with it resting in his palm. Leaning back against the desk with a heavy sigh, his eyes flutter closed, heart falling back into a normal rhythm just from listening to the soft sounds of Law’s breathing.

Law.

Breathing.

Alive.

And here, talking to him.

It’s incredible, really.

“You still on Dressrosa?”

“I am.” Law’s voice drips with fatigue, and Kid can see the den-den sway. “I fear we’ll be here for a while. Mugiwara- _ya_ … is not in a good state.”

Kid wants to say _good_ , but isn’t sure how Law will handle that, opting for a complementary hum instead.

Law continues, “I have a lot to tell you, however. It’s shameful.” A pause. “Things I should have just told you years ago, and I’m sorry.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that, brain momentarily short-circuiting at the fact that Trafalgar Law just _apologised._ Kid can feel it though, even through the transponder snail, the difference in the air. Like Law is lighter. Free.

“It’s fine,” Kid says, the word feeling incredibly under weighted in this situation.

The den-den smiles. “Remember the day after we met at Sabaody? We went to breakfast.”

Kid frowns. “Yeah?”

“Let’s do that,” Law says, firm, like he’s just reached an important decision. His words are starting to slur from fatigue. “Let’s just travel the world and do that.”

“What?” Kid laughs. “Travel the world and eat breakfast?”

The den-den is slowing, an even breathing and hum settling over the snail. It’s eyes droop, and the face takes on a lazy, peaceful expression.

“Yeah,” he breathes. Repeats, “Let’s do that,” and, “Eustass- _ya_ , I am so—”

And then, Kid’s world explodes.

He is thrown back, smashing into the brick wall behind him with an awful _crunch._ The den-den flies out of his hand, shattering into pieces across the room that’s tilting on its axis, tiles sliding and shifting faster than Kid can gather his thoughts. His ears ring, and he sees nothing but stars and lights, a thousand little suns dancing before him.

His first thought is an earthquake, but as his hearing starts to return, gunshots cut through the buzz, with shouts and screams that fill the air.

Then, the unmistakeable smell of fire.

**xx .i**

Killer’s body is the first thing Kid sees outside, through the torrential rain.

The next, _The White Pearl_ , burning on the sea.

And then. Kaido.

Hawkins is on him in an instant, seemingly out of nowhere, this lithe creepy ghost hovering in his periphery. He says, “Apoo has surrendered.”

“Like _fuck_ ,” Kid snarls. “No way in hell are we surrendering.”

They stand at the entrance of his safehouse, the stairs down to the lawn crumbled into nothing but rubble. The scene that stretches out before them is a chaotic mess, blood and mud and zoan beasts tearing the place apart.

And through it all, Kid can’t take his eyes off Killer’s body, half-buried in the mud. Still. Too still.

“Agreed.” Hawkins, always observant, adds, “Killer is not dead. Though, his chances of survival here are low.”

“Right.”

Kid blinks, dragging his eyes away with enormous effort. Kaido is moving now, this giant beast, larger than Kid could have ever imagined. He’s talking, but Kid can’t hear what he’s saying—doesn’t _care_ what he’s saying. Adrenaline pumps through his veins—excitement, hunger—and he clenches his fist, heart fluttering with anticipation.

“Oi,” he says to Hawkins after a moment, turning to the man next to him. His cards are before him, dancing in the air as if suspended by string. “Take Killer, our two crews, and a frigate. I’ll distract Kaido.”

Hawkins’ hand pauses its minute movements, his shoulders stiffening slightly. “I did not predict this.”

“Yeah, well, I’m an unpredictable guy.” Kid cracks his neck, stretching left to right, before leaping off the small ledge into the rubble below. He looks up at Hawkins, who leans forward to meet his gaze, eyes uncharacteristically wide. “Go! Leave it to me! I have Killer’s vivre card. I’ll find you later.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, sprinting across the courtyard towards the beast, powers leaking out of him effortlessly to halt any stray bullets that may come his way. The rain is pelting down hard, ground muddy and slippery, hair sticking to his face and dripping water into his eyes.

He skids past one of Kaido’s men, grabbing him by the neck with his metal hand and crushing his throat. It’s so quick that the man doesn’t even have time to yell, but Kaido must sense the shift in the air, turning his way slowly, smile spreading across his enormous face with realisation.

Kid grins fearlessly back, dropping the limp body into a heap in the mud. “Let’s go.”

 

**xxi.**

Something collides painfully with his shoulder, and Kid breaches the darkness, body heavy and sinking, like he’s been drugged.

“Wake up.”

His shoulder is jolted again, and it is with a sudden burning rage that Kid realises he is being _kicked_ —that some _fucker_ is just standing next to him and _kicking him_.

The asshole brings his foot back again, but Kid is ready, and goes to catch it with his metal hand and rip that fucking foot off his body—but he is aggressively pulled back, the sound of chains rattling from his movement, head spinning in protest. He feels like he’s drowning, heavy, lethargic and aching, unable to breathe, and he slides down into a heap on the grimy stone floor with a pained groan, all energy sapped away.

“Haha, sea prism stone really does screw with you guys, huh?” An ugly, spotty face floats before him, tacked onto a weedy, spindly body that’s all legs and arms. “That’s why SMILE’s are so good. None of that.”

He grabs the chain that wraps around Kid’s chest, rattling it for effect, the movement making the whole dungeon spin from the contact of the chain slapping against his bare skin.

“Fuck off,” Kid says—or tries too, but all that comes out is a garbled cough, and then he’s vomiting blood up on the stone.

“Ew, yuck.” The guy let’s go of the chain and leaps back. He laughs. It takes a dizzying moment for Kid to realise he’s now on the other side of the bars, leaning through the iron with a feral grin. “Shoulda surrendered like your friend. Not very smart are you?”

This time, Kid does manage to say, “Fuck off.” But instead of his captor reacting, he just receives another manic laugh, and then the roof above Kid gapes open. First, it is the smell of salt, everywhere, completely overwhelming; and then, the water hits him, cold and hard, like he’s been rammed with the hilt of a sword. Darkness gropes at his mind through the torrent, drowning him in complete silence, and through the blur, he sees—

nothing.

**xxii.**

Days pass into weeks.

He’s not really keeping count of time, but he can absently work it out through guard rotations and the Yonko’s drinking habits. Kid tries to feign sleep most of the time, more just to avoid conversation than anything else. He never fancied himself an intelligent guy, but Kaido’s men are _dumb_. He’s pretty sure that even Flick has an I.Q higher than some of his generals that come every now and then, and that’s saying something as Kid recruited Flick _specifically_ because that woman was incapable of thinking for herself.

 

Then, Apoo shows up one day.

Kid stays still in his cell, chin resting against his chest, watching carefully as his “ally” walks in, that nervous, defensive dance thing he does taking up the whole room. His eyes are flicking this way and that, back forward, up down, and then they find Kid.

Kid lifts his head, just slightly, just enough for Apoo to see the dried blood caked on his chin, and grins. “Scratchmen.”

Apoo says something to the guard outside of Kid’s cell, words muffled to his ears, looking nervous—but the guard just laughs, and nods, jerking his head to the button by his side.

“Go on.”

Kid’s stomach clenches painfully, sharply, heart pounding, as if frantic to escape. He launches forward, skin burning against the chains that force him back.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he grinds out, but Apoo just grins, that annoying laugh drowning out Kid’s protests.

“Never thought I’d see you like this, ‘Captain’ Kid, appa!” His arm reaches out, hovers over the button with a dramatic pause—

“FUCK. I will _KILL you—DON’T—_ ”

—and hits it, the roof falling open, water rushing through like a tidal wave, instantly swallowing Kid in the dark, unable to breathe, unable to move, trapped, drowning, useless—

**xxiii.**

His world is so bleak, salt on his tongue, and there is only the ocean: wild, untamed, cold…

So, so cold.

**xxiv.**

Kid stays awake for three whole days.

He’s given a royal treatment for it, too, with four guards instead of the usual one, pacing the space just outside his cell. He watches them all calmly, listens to them natter. One of them on the right favours two steel swords, his mate nearby a simple iron dagger. To the left, two guns, twelve bullets, and the last, a brass axe.

This is curious to him for several reasons:

One—he seems to have accustomed so absolutely with his Devil Fruit power that not even the frequent drownings and sea prism chains can stop him from identifying metal;

Two—there is a lot of metal and water in this dungeon, and, if his assumptions are correct, a live-wire in the electrical box just near the door that the morons have been too lazy to fix;

And three—he has not lost his mind. Yet.

Honestly, he never expected to—he is a firm believer in survive the New World or don’t, and Eustass Kid _is_ a survivor—but…

But.

When he is lucky, it is every second day. Kid can handle that. Predict it. However, he is hardly lucky, and on the worse days the ocean swallows him whole, wave after wave of cold, icy water. It is complete darkness. It is his body frozen, limbs numb, the abyss closing in, and salt, everywhere, sapping him of all energy, hope, freedom. His arm is nothing but rust by his side, and he can feel the corrosion slowly poisoning him, this sickness that smells so acrid, disgusting, festering.

 _Pop_.

He tenses.

“Hey.” Kid doesn’t look up, but he can hear one of the guards stop his wanderings. “You hear that?”

“What?” a gruff voice snaps.

“Sounded like a gunshot.”

One of them snorts, just to the left. “Probably Kaido- _sama_ returning from his—”

 _BANG_.

The whole building shakes on its fixtures, then, rocks and rubble falling between the cracks above. All four guards gather just outside of Kid’s cell door, pressing against the iron with their weapons drawn.

“What the—”

Another bang—definitely a gunshot—and then the unmistakable sound of somebody screaming.

Kid laughs, all four heads swivelling in his direction with wide, frantic eyes. “That doesn’t sound good, men.”

“Shut the hell up,” Gunman shouts, shoving one of his pistols between the iron bars and aiming directly at Kid’s face. “I will—”

“Don’t!” Axeman cries. He grabs his friend’s arm and forces the pistol down. “Kaido- _sama_ wants him alive—”

A crash this time. More rubble falls from above, surrounding them in a cloudy, dusty haze. Kid coughs, eyes watering, and he can hear them all shouting at one another, voices frantic and high over the chaos racketing above.

“We can’t leave our post—”

“We need to help—”

“Let’s just go—”

“Enough!” Steel swordsman. He seems the calmest out of them all, but his two swords are still shaking visibly in his hands as he stares at Kid. “Drown him and let’s go. He’s not going anywhere.”

Kid’s heart plummets, stomach clenching with nausea.  “Wait—” he starts, “don’t—”

But it’s too late, Axeman slamming his fist on the button, cold abyss swallowing Kid whole once more, filling him with dread as another explosion shakes the castles walls and—

dark.

**xxv.**

He wakes to a woman’s voice, unnaturally calm. It is an ebb and flow, like the ocean’s tide rushing to shore, drifting away to only return, too loud, too close.

“… find the key… of course we can… No, we…”

And then metal. A lot of it, actually. All different types, too: iron, steel, brass, aluminium and … titanium? His brain is fuzzy and clouded, but Kid is almost certainly sure that it is titanium that grazes his arm.

“…rust…”

Weird.

The woman speaks again, and this time her words are quite clear, “I am sure that Torao- _kun_ will be here soon, Chopper.”

A child replies, “There is a _lot_ of trauma from the water. I should have kept my bag…”

Some fussing and shuffling, and Kid’s arm is being lifted by the titanium now. Free from his chains, then. He tries to move.

“Ah, Robin!”

“Yes.”

Gripped again, like a thousand hands are holding him down, and Kid flails weakly, trying to break out of the hold. But he can’t move, and his body is _so_ tired, energy sapped from him as quick as it appeared.

He thinks he sighs.

“We’re losing him,” the child says. “Keep his hand up, Franky—”

**xxv i.**

He’s back again. There’s more people around now, and he feels crowded, unable to breathe, their voices a rushed, panicked hum clouding his brain.

Through it all, he feels _Kikoku_.

At first, he thinks he has surely died, hallucinating at the faded, forgotten memories he has of Law. Nothing around him is making sense, this medical lingo that’s dribbling through his brain, just like after Blue Hole—

“Mugiwara- _ya_. Do. Not. Touch. That.”

He is not dreaming.

Kid forces his eyes awake, swimming desperately through the dark just to know, to _see_. He is still in that damned cell, dim light filtering through the cracks in the ruined roof, and there are four people around—no, five? There’s an animal, but it’s walking and talking and—

He groans, the image fading, but he can see Law there, staring at him with wide, gold eyes. He is… different. So different. _Kikoku_ rests on his shoulders, but they are higher, straight, and his hair is this unruly, tangled mess like he hasn’t cut it in months. He is in a shirt, jeans, there’s his hat, and he is… he is…

He smiles.

_Happy._

Kid’s eyes are suddenly heavy, burdened, exhausted. He sees Law’s mouth move, but he can’t hear the words, can’t hear anything. But then Mugiwara, this ball of light that just fills the room—so bright, _blinding_ —wraps his arm around Law, pulls him close, and Kid hears this, he does, the words bleeding into his brain like an open, festering wound:

“Of course, Torao! We’re _nakama_!”

As Kid begins to fade, sleep dragging him back down into the abyss, he sees _Mugiwara no_ Luffy’s smile, stretching and stretching and stretching. So large and wide and unashamed, that Kid thinks that he could just take it off him, great as it is, and wear it around his neck like a collar, weighing him down.

 

**xxvi.**

_and_

_breathe._


	5. five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been super stressed from work and home-life, so sorry if that comes across in my writing. But we're here! I wanted to give you all a heartfelt thank you. Your encouragement has been incredibly humbling. Enjoy :)

**(you want to say this is the end but it’s not, not even close and definitely not now)**

**xxvii.**

Kid wakes, the air in the room cold and unmoving, dust suspended, backlit by the small circular window. There is the sound of a violin, laughter, footsteps thundering around above—and nearer: the whirl of a fan, fluttering the pages of an open book by the bedside, a ticking of a clock that reads 7pm, and Room, thrumming and pulsing as it contracts and expands around him.

Law is hunched over his desk, back to Kid, shoulders shifting slightly with each minute movement of his hands. In front of him is Kid’s metal arm, rust peeling and flaking the once pristine steel. It looks diseased; an angry orange that stains the cuffs of Law’s white long-sleeve shirt. The glow from the sunlight textures its surface.

Kid buries half his face into the pillow, rich with the smell of mint and salt, and watches. Law’s left-hand ghosts over the prosthetic, extracting the surface rust and discarding it on the floor at his feet. Underneath is just more corrosion, and Kid hears his irritated hum; but he does not pause, going over it again, and again, and again, the rust flakes piling around him like snow.

He feels inexplicably heavy watching the delicate process, like he is falling into darkness, the weight of the world forcing him down. He is numb, empty, _shamed._ He knows no matter how deep Law digs, no matter how hard he tries, there is nothing there but rust, nothing there to salvage.

A minute passes until he can bear it no more. Through the violin, the fluttering, the pulsing, Kid says, “Oi. Stop.”

Law stiffens. Does not turn. “What?”

Kid sits up, throwing off the fur blanket and swinging around with a _slap_ of bare feet on the metal floor. Fatigue holds his limbs, but he forces himself to stand. He takes in the room around him slowly, unsure what to call this feeling: this intense grip that holds his heart, that makes it hard to think, that blurs his vision and clenches his fist, that holds him still.

“You can’t,” he starts, and Law turns then, regarding him coolly, eyebrow cocked. Kid swallows; tries again: “You can’t fix it.”

“I can remove cancer cells from a human body—I _have_. How is this any different?”

Kid stares at it. It smells like blood. Like sick. He can feel it’s discordant thrum in the back of his mind, this poison that will slowly drive him insane; that will slowly ruin him from the inside.

Maybe it already has.

He hears Law continue, “I can severe the bond between the oxygen and iron atoms inside the steel. The oxide has expanded the metal, but once removed, with your power you can… return the atoms…”

Law stops.

Then he moves.

Smooth and languid, like water leaking through cupped fingers, and before Kid can ask what the hell he is doing, Room is up, and just like that, the prosthetic is gone—nothing more than a tiny drop in the endless ocean stretching beyond the round window. Kid sees it splash in the water, disappear into the abyss, the smell of blood still there but then _not,_ replaced with something deeper, whole—spearmint, spice, sandalwood.

The tightening around Kid’s heart leaves him with a breath he was not aware he was holding. “ _Damn_.”

“You good?”

“Ah.” Breathe. In. Out. In. “Yep.”

The violin pauses its melody, silence filled only by the fluttering of pages near the bed. They stare at one another, the quiet saying more than they ever could in this lifetime.

Eventually, it is broken, and Room disappears, Law whispering, “Eustass- _ya_ , I thought you died.”

“Ha,” Kid says bitterly, “we’ve had this conversation before.”

Law laughs then, a short, sharp sound like the snapping of a branch. “Indeed.”

Kid grins, a feral thing, and when Law leans towards him, he is already meeting him halfway, the kiss urgent and needy, groan rippling through Law and into Kid’s mouth. Hands grab wherever they can reach, a cumulation of want and desperation, and Kid cannot breathe properly, cannot think at all.

Law leans back with a sigh as another melody fills the ship.

“You—ah.” His mouth is moving but his brain’s not working, and all Kid can manage is a half-assed, “You look good,” the words sounding hollow even to his ears.

But Law smiles. Wraps his arms around Kid’s torso. Presses his forehead to Kid’s chest. Says, voice muffled, “I’m sorry.”

Kid has no idea what for—doesn’t care to know. All he knows is that Law is here, that he is here, that they’re _alive,_ and he buries his face into that wiry black hair taking a breath so deep it fills him whole, peace settling around him, the world wonderfully calm.

“Ah, fuck, Trafalgar—” He runs his hand through Law’s hair, gripping it tightly, holds him there, feels the steady heartbeat against his own chest, “—I missed you. Fuck, I missed you _so much._ ”

Another quiet mumble: “I missed you too.”

Kid tugs his hair, not-so gently, pulling Law’s head back so he can see his eyes. They shine gold, that damnable smirk touching the corners of his lips, and his heart fills with the very familiar pattern of emotions Law always bought forth in him—joy, excitement, hunger. A little bit of anger.

Law captures his lips in a kiss, sighing into his mouth, pushing against his chest with his usual childish impatience. Kid stumbles backwards to the bed, grinning as he feels those sneaky inked hands feather under his shirt. He falls into the mattress, Law on top, hands smoothing over Kid’s abs.

Law licks his lips as he stares down at him, warm breath fanning across Kid’s face. “You look fucking amazing.”

“Yeah?” Kid rasps, mouth dry, Law’s eyes just—just—“Uh. Dammit. _Trafalgar_.”

A laugh. Another kiss, harder, almost aggressive. Law takes his lips between his teeth, biting gently before he pulls away, leaving Kid cold in his absence. He chases him with a shuddering breath, but Law just leans back further in his lap, until Kid is sitting up, hand wrapped around the surgeon’s waist to hold him still.

“Get this off,” Kid orders tugging at the shirt, words disjointed, voice all husky and rough. “Wanna see—all of you.”

“Patience, Eusta—”

“I _have_ been patient.”

Law grins. “Wait.” The violin outside reaches a crescendo, and he breathes, “ _Room_.”

“What are you—”

Kid is pushed forcefully back into the pillows with a _poof_ and a gasp, the strong smell of mint engulfing him as Law looms over. The blue light pulses around them, a gentle hum that drowns out all ambient noise to nothing but whispers. The submarine has never felt so _small,_ pressing in and all around him, and Kid is overwhelmed with the intense need to just breathe under Law’s smouldering gaze, burning into him with the pink haze of the sun.

Without a word, he moves like water, hand running along the inside of Kid’s thigh. He presses there lightly, at the seam of his pants, and runs his fingers up the needlework with pinking cheeks. Room pulses, and inside—deep inside, through all the skin, the blood, the fat, the muscle—Kid feels an intense, sudden pressure that has him writhing and gasping for air. Pleasure floods him, pooling in his groin, and he moans, long and loud beneath Law’s unwavering touch.

“What are you—” he starts again, but Law catches him in a kiss, pressing into him with a _shhh_ as his hand continues upward, teasing the hem of Kid’s pants. Again, the blue circle thrums, and then another push, this time more intense then the last, clenching the muscles of his stomach as Law feathers the dip of his abs.

“Fuck,” Kid groans, hand pulling the surgeon into him, desperate for more contact, more friction, more warmth.

“Hmmm.”

His hands continue to explore Kid’s body, Room’s power dragging across his skin with promise and pleasure, almost too much of it to bear. Law’s fingers pull at the tie of his pants, and Kid lifts his hips, so he can carefully slide them down his legs.

A hiss of want escapes him, and Law laughs again, breathing into his lungs, “Good?”

Kid just growls, catching his mouth with impatience, tongue probing, solo hand exploring everywhere he can touch. Law’s body is so tight and cool, and Kid is waiting for this insatiable craving within him to stop, because it is not enough—he needs more, more, _more_.

Law provides, gripping him tightly, all thought falling from Kid as he gasps aloud.

He is gentle and slow at first, teasing and toying with him. A soft _“Eustass”_ escapes, moan catching the back of Kid’s throat as he arches his back into that low drawl. Kid’s heart thunders to the harmony of the violin, and just when he thinks he’s going to _explode—_ he needs _more_ —Law spreads his free hand across his chest and pushes power within him.

Too much—

Not _nearly_ enough.

Kid lets out a string of curses, pleasure flooding him intensely, skin like fire. He is vaguely aware that Law has pulled away, but then their fingers intertwine, and he is back, saying, “I love you” and “Eustass- _ya_ ” voice so calm, so deep, so real. He settles into the cradle of Kid’s hips, laughing all carefree into his mouth, pulling at his own shirt to reveal the painted chest beneath.

Again, he breathes, whisper soft, “I just _love_ you.”

**xxviii.**

Late that night, in the depths of the sub, the Heart Pirates indulge in a game of poker. Shachi wins five rounds before he asks, “What happens now?”

“Deal,” Kid orders, drinking down the dregs of his beer.

“ _No_ ,” he sighs. Shachi starts dealing the table, but stares at Kid, eyes shadowed beneath his hat. Repeats, “What happens _now_?”

“Just—” Kid stops, grabs his cards, tries to focus on the colours, the suits, the numbers in hand. “Just shut up.”

It’s easier this way.

**xxix.**

Scratchmen is on Mugiwara’s ship.

Penguin tells him this nervously as they walk through the capital city of Wano, collecting bits and pieces to repair the submarine. They are idle, lazy in the summer heat, and Law pauses his wanderings to inspect a scrap metal bin with a sign reading ‘10 Beli per Piece’.

“He’s alive?” Kid growls.

Law hums, picking up a sample of iron and turning it over in his hand. Penguin continues, “You were allies right? He was fighting for Kaido but tried to run when it got too much.”

Kid says nothing. Law passes him the bit of metal without a word, and Kid only has to hold it for a second before he throws it back into the bin with a shake of his head.

Too small, too fragile, useless.

Penguin says, “I don’t know what Luffy wants with him though...”

“I told him to.” Law finds another, larger piece of steel, holding it out to Kid with a smirk. He takes it. This one is better, solid, humming in his palm as Law says over the melody, “I thought you might have something to say.”

**xxix .i**

He does.

But what he wants to say cannot be told with words, and once he sees that _idiot_ , Kid’s boot collides with his face violently, sending him sprawling across the grassy deck of the ship. He follows calmly, guns rattling on his belt the only sound save for the rocking sea.

He leans over Scratchmen’s body, hand wrapping around his throat, something akin to satisfaction stirring within him.

He may not have gotten to Kaido, but this—

This will do.

Everyone is exploring, besides Mugiwara’s swordsman, archaeologist and Law. Apoo looks to them, the trio leaning casually against the portside railing, and pleads, “Stop him! He’s—”

But Kid cuts him off with a tightening of his grip, hissing, “Do you want to know what drowning feels like, Scratchmen?”

His eyes seem to pop out of his head, a desperate gasp escaping him.

“Scum like you—” He squeezes tighter, vision blurring slightly with the anger and adrenaline that courses through his veins. “ _Fuck you._ ”

Apoo’s cuffed hands scratch at his wrist, no power behind the movement. A low gargle escapes from him, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

From behind, Nico Robin’s unnervingly serene voice says, “I don’t think he can breathe, Eustass- _kun_.”

Kid relaxes his grip. Slightly. Apoo takes a deep, desperate breath, eyes watering.

“Killer—where is his vivre card?”

 “I—I don’t know wh—where it is,” Apoo stammers, voice raw and wavering with fear. “Kaido- _sama_ would have—have taken it when you—”

“Wrong answer.” Kid presses his thumb into the tender muscle of his neck, just near his spine, just enough for it to _really_ hurt. Apoo lets out a satisfied yelp. “He gave you one. He _trusted_ you. Where—” grip tightening, tears returning to his terrified eyes “—is it.”

“I—I don’t—”

“I have one.” Kid whirls around, Law holding his gaze with incredible calmness. He pulls out the small, torn bit of paper, and points south. “He’s back towards Sabaody.”

“Back?” Mugiwara’s swordsman grunts.

“Yeah,” Law answers, voice unbelievably soft in the open air, eyes smiling in the sunlight. “Back near Fisherman’s Point.”

Apoo goes to say something, but Kid tightens his grip again, nothing but a pained gargle breaking the silence of the ship. His heart thuds, out of time, breath caught in his chest, and he grins, lungs swelling as those golden eyes hold him steady, full of promise and hope.

Law says, “Perhaps it is fate, Eustass _-ya_?”

Kid can’t help but laugh.

**xxx.**

He wakes.

Beads of sweat run down his face, and he is left gasping for air, chest heaving erratically with movements that hold no rhythm. Brightness that he swore was a fire only seconds ago fades into nothing, and he is left staring at the ceiling, vivid images dancing across his mind and refusing to leave.

He sits, runs a hand over his face. Hot sheets tangle with his legs, twisting into knots and making it difficult to relax. He can still feel the ocean, pressing into him, stealing his last breath—still feel the pain in his arm, the poison that burns his body, his mind.

Too real, all of it. Too real to know the difference between the gentle slap of waves on the hull and the rush of a tsunami in his mind.

The strike of a match in the dark catches him, and he looks up to see Law light a candle by the desk, flicking idly through an open book. A teapot sits on the tables surface, steam rising slowly to the roof, with two ugly floral cups by its side.

If he noticed Kid’s nightmare, he does not say, softly humming to himself as he pours the tea, eyes still reading the open page before him.

He pauses. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Milk.” Kid takes a deep breath—groans. “Ah, fuck. What time is it?”

“Local time? Early morning.” Law pours milk in one cup, stirring a teaspoon of sugar in the other. “In the North? Midday.”

Kid blinks. “What—why the fuck would I care about Northern time?”

“Time is fascinating.”

He says it with such intense simplicity that Kid cannot even dignify a reply, watching as Law walks across the small room, two mugs in hand. He places them on the bedside, and in one quick movement, flicks the tangled sheets flat, slipping under them like a cat.

“Let me see your arm.”

Kid lifts his sweat-drenched shirt over his head, with Law’s help, and throws it over the bed. Room circles around them, and he feels Law’s touch feather his shoulder, dancing around the burning wound that his arm has left behind.

Kid takes his tea from the bedside, breathing in the steam with a sigh. The haunting visions start to fade, and he begins to lose himself in the rocking of the sub, the hum of Room, eyes stinging from exhaustion.

_“Here.”_

The strange sensation of something being pulled from his wound crawls across his skin, and he stiffens, eyes snapping open. Law’s fingers lightly press each bruise and gash—and then it happens again, and _yuck_.

“What are you doing?” Kid asks, biting his cheek. He tries to not pull away, but it’s hard. Really hard.

“It’s not the rust that made you sick,” Law answers, voice vague from concentration. “It is a bacterium that thrives of the habitat rust provides. I caught it before anything bad happened, but there are—hold _still_.”

“Ughnn.”

“—there are still spores,” he continues. “I’m able to draw it out, but it is an incredibly delicate process.”

Kid sips his tea, focusing on the silence, trying to ignore the pulling at his side. It feels like hair being dragged out of an open wound, like skin lifting off from hot glue—invasive, uncomfortable. _Gross._

“You have goosebumps, Eustass- _ya_.”

“Yeah,” Kid snaps through gritted teeth, “because it feels fucking weird.”

Law chuckles darkly.

“Distract me.”

He hums. “I’m currently busy.”

“I mean.” Kid leans back against the headboard, Law following him. He watches the candlelight dance across the ceiling, soft blue illumination from Room playing eerily with shadows in his periphery. “Talk to me. About something. Anything.”

Law is silent for a beat as another sharp pull drags from his shoulder. Kid thinks for a moment that maybe he is too focused, and can’t talk, but then he breathes, “I’ve done this to myself before.”

“Yeah? What did you do? Stab yourself with a rusty nail?”

The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Not quite. I was a very sick child—Eustass- _ya_ , stop—”

“Fuck, fine, shit—just. Ugh. _Hurry up_.”

Law continues, mockingly calm, “I was given this fruit to cure my disease—to remove it, just like—” another slow, agonising pull, “—this.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much, you shit.”

Law just smirks at him, Kid flinching beneath his touch.

After a beat, Kid says, “It worked, obviously.”

“There was a price.” Law’s eyes darken, mouth turning down, but he continues his feather-like movements with precision. “A price I’ve had to live with since.”

“We don’t have to talk—”

“No,” Law interrupts, “we don’t. But I would like to. He deserves that much.” A pause in his movements, a sigh. He looks at Kid then, and smiles, sadly. “ _You_ deserve that much.”

 

Law returns to his surgery. It isn’t until morning pours through the small window, until the candle is nothing but a waxy mess on the table, and Law’s untouched tea is ice-cold, that he falls asleep on Kid’s chest, exhausted. He told him everything, from the beginning to the end, from his sister to Mugiwara.

Kid is left, wide awake as the ghosts of Law’s past fill his consciousness, dancing around the small cabin as if guided by string. Through it all, the ocean continues to ebb and flow, the gentle slap waves and Law’s breathing the only sound in the absolute silence.

**xxxi.**

Another night of poker.

It has become a regular occurrence for Shachi to deal him in, for Penguin to pour the drinks, for them to ask that _insufferable_ question once he is too far gone, the room swaying pleasantly from alcohol.

“We leave in two days,” Shachi says, Penguin bouncing off him immediately with, “Bepo reckons we’ll get to Fishy Point in three.”

And Kid just growls, “Shut _up_ ,” and drinks, hoping the answer is at the bottom of this cup.

**xxxii.**

The nightmares steal his nights, but Kid owns his days. He makes effort to stand on the deck of the sub, breathe the salt air, watch the ocean lap beneath the stern. He learns to not flinch from the salt spray, relearns how to love the sea.

They stay off the coast of Wano for some time, repairing the _Polar Tang_ and treating the injured. Mugiwara’s crew leave as soon as their log pose is set, taking Scratchmen with them to hand him over to the marines ‘anonymously’—though Kid wonders how true _that_ really is.

Before they leave, however, Mugiwara invites himself onto the sub. He is a chaotic presence, finding his way down into the depths of the vessel and entering Law’s room without so much as a knock.

The door explodes, and he shoots across the small space, barrelling into Law at his desk and sending them both to the floor with a heavy _thud_.

“Torao!”

“Mugiwara- _ya_ ,” Law hisses, throwing the tiny captain off his chest. He sits up, dusting down his front and glowers. “What are you doing?”

“I came to say goodbye!” Mugiwara grins, looking at Kid who has not moved from the bed; spanners, nuts and bolts strewn around him. “Ohh, hey metal guy!”

Kid sneers.

“We already said goodbye,” Law says. He narrows his eyes. “Didn’t we?”

Mugiwara looks shiftily away, pouting like a child. “Yeah.”

“So…?”

“Torao,” he moans, melting into the floor. “Come with us.”

Law’s back stiffens. “No.”

“Please.”

“ _No._ ”

“Torao—”

“Mugiwara- _ya_.” Law takes a deep breath. He looks at him, like he is the only one in the room, the only one in the world, eyes softening. Promises, “This isn’t the end of our alliance.”

Mugiwara’s only response is a smile—one so bright, so happy, so trusting.

And all Kid can think is: _that should be me._

**xxxiii.**

Law brings him breakfast every morning.

He can’t help but laugh. “You’re like a fucking housewife, Trafalgar.”

All that cheeky shit does is wink, smirk full of mirth and promise, the sweet smell of coffee and eggs heavy in the air.

 

Again, that night, Shachi asks the same question, deals the same cards, Penguin pouring the same drinks.

And Kid finally admits:

“I don’t _know_.”

**xxxiv.**

Three evenings later, 200 metres below sea level in the absolute darkness, Law asks, “What do you want for breakfast?” He looks incredibly calm in the candlelight, shirtless, chin resting in his propped hand. “We should reach the island by dawn.”

Kid is on the floor, working on a new arm fashioned out of titanium and aluminium. It is considerably lighter than the last, and rust-proof to boot. It’s taken some time learning how to use just one hand, but he is starting to get the hang of it, magnetic power helping whenever the task gets too complex.

He answers, “Dunno,” twisting the metal beneath his fingers, the candlelight reflecting on the polished surface. “Whatever.”

“I feel like—” Law spins in his chair, tapping a brio against his lips with a hum. “Mmmm, I feel like eggs. Scrambled… Maybe with muffins.”

Kid snorts. “What, you hate bread but like muffins?”

“They are completely different, thank you,” Law says, mock hurt. “Muffins have sugar.”

“Sugar.”

“Yep.”

“Sounds… _great_.”

“Your sarcasm is noted, Eustass- _ya_ ,” he clips, flicking the pen at him. It hits Kid’s chest, bouncing on the floor and disappearing beneath the bed. Kid grins at him. “And it’s not appreciated.”

“ _Sorry_ ,” he says, not sorry in the slightest. “I’m sure—”

“Shut up. _Room.”_

Before Kid can gather his thoughts, he’s swapped with a sheet on the bed, sinking deep into the mattress. Law’s hands land either side of his head, and he looks down at Kid, grinning dangerously, eyes dancing in the low light.

It occurs to Kid he has never noticed the way the sub rocks underwater with the sea current, or the way Law’s ears pinken with each excited breath; how when he says “Eustass- _ya_ ,” his lips barely move, thumb ghosting across Kid’s jaw.

Everything is so significant right now, right down to the waxy smell of the candle; everything so complicated as he tries to remember how this will end.

And then Law kisses him: and it isn’t.

**xxxv.**

Kid stands, fixed on the rotted wood, heart hammering insanely fast and out-of-time. Yet—

There is a soothing calm and comfort here, one that has him almost smiling, one that makes him sigh.

“Captain,” Wire says, at the same time Killer asks, “Kid?”

He blinks.

Twenty faces stare back at him, crowded on the tiny wooden dock of the island, all waiting with bated breath, all smiling with relief.

The sun is hot, the sky so blue, and Kid snaps, grin splitting his face in half, “What the fuck are you all staring at?”

**xxxvi.**

“You’re late.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Kid throws himself into the chair across from Hawkins, grinning at him over the rim of his tankard. “I had a meeting with a Yonko.”

He watches as Hawkins draws five cards, the alcohol and excited aura of the tavern leaving him blissfully happy and thoughtless. Time has not touched Dukes. The counters are still filthy, the beer rancid—his old wanted poster, now one hundred thousand beli short, tacked on the wall and covered in a fine layer of dust.

Duke, himself, leans on the counter chatting to Bepo and Law. Kid stares, fascinated, as Law relaxes—how his hand feathers _Kikoku_ at his side, easily leaning against the bar with one leg crossed—how when he laughs he pulls down the brim of his hat, and when he talks everyone around his hangs onto each word—

—how when he looks up, his golden eyes find Kid’s through the crowd instantly, like he is right there, like he is the only person in the tavern—in the _world_ —that matters.

Law smirks, Kid’s chest expanding painfully.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Hawkins impassive voice drags him back, and Kid returns to the matter at hand, gulping down the rest of his drink, and tapping the—

He stops, hand frozen mid-air.

“Errr.” Kid rubs his face, suddenly irritated. _Shit_. Maybe he drank more than he realised. “Thank me for what?”

“Will you pick a card, Captain Kid?”

Yeah, the third one. He _always_ picks the third one. _Just pick the third one._

But—

 _But_.

Hawkins, unperturbed, says, “For letting myself and my crew escape that day.”

“Oh, right.” His hand stays suspended. Distracted, he repeats, “Right. Yeah.”

What would happen if he picks the first card? He’s never done that before. It was always so easy—tap the third, and nothing happens.

Something indefinable shifts inside of him, his pulse seeking out to beat through the tips of his fingers. He rights his spine, sits straighter in the chair, curiosity, will, determination, thundering in his chest.

And Eustass Kid taps the card:

_Tap, tap, tap._

**end.**

It’s a spur of the moment thing.

“Let’s do it.”

“Huh?” Law is half-asleep, half not-listening, laying on his back in the grass, staring up to the sky. The sounds of the tavern are so far away, nothing but a distant hum drifting out to sea, and it feels isolated here, so private.

“I said: let’s do it. Trafalgar—”

He sits up and looks to him then. Raises a brow.

“—let’s just—fuck this all off.” Kid waves his arm towards the midnight blue ocean before them, like that answers what he can’t say, what he won’t say. “Let’s just travel the world and—”

“No.” Law falls back into the grass with a sigh, folding his arms under his head. “Sit.”

Kid wants to say fuck off, but he finds himself sitting regardless, curiosity getting the better of him. The grass is cold and wet from dew, Law’s warmth radiating off him, each rise and fall of his chest a constant in the darkness.

“Let me follow you to Raftel,” he says, without turning around, without taking his eyes off the star filled sky. His voice brims with confidence, eyes shining in the night. “Take me with you.”

Kid grumbles, “But your alliances are elsewhere.”

Because that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? He remembers the way Mugiwara smiled at him, how full of gratitude Law was as he recounted their time on Dressrosa, how he had denied all Kid’s requests for an alliance; but _Mugiwara_ full of miracles, full of hope, _he_ would be the one to help, to save Law, to—

“Eustass _-ya_ ,” Law whispers. He looks to him then, smile all consuming, and Kid stops; can’t think, can’t speak, can’t anything. The wind sweeps the forest behind them, silent whispers carrying through the night, a cool kiss on his bare skin. “ _Take me with you_.”

Licks his lips. Takes a breath.

 _Breathe_.

“Okay.”

It’s quite simple, really.

 

* * *

 

**i.**

_So we are moving to a lighthouse, you and I_  
_While seas drown sailors, we'll be locked up safe and dry_  
_And though our doors may knock and rattle in the wind_  
_I'll just hold you tight and we'll not let those fuckers in_

 _—The Lighthouse,_ Josh Pyke.

 


End file.
